ROBERT  ERNEST  COWAN 


SONGS    OF    ITALY. 


SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


BY 


JOAQUIN   MILLER, 

AUTHOR    OF    "SONGS    OF   THE    SIERRAS,"    ETC. 


BOSTON: 
ROBERTS     BROTHERS. 

1878. 


Copyright, 
BY  C.  H.  MILLER, 

1878. 


CAMBRIDGE: 
PRESS  OF  JOHN  WILSON  AND  SON. 


TO 


HENRY    WADSWORTH    LONGFELLOW. 


CONTENTS. 


ROME 11 

A  DOVE  OF  ST.  MARK 13 

SUNRISE  IN  VENICE 29 

PALATINE  HILL 32 

IN  A  GONDOLA 34 

COMO .36 

A  GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY 42 

THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL 50 

THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL,  PART  II.      ....  68 

IL  CAPUCIN 75 

FAITH 79 

To  FLORENCE 81 

FOR  PAULINE 83 

To  CARRIE  A.  S 85 

THE  UNKNOWN  TONGUE 87 

UNICA-^ETERNA 89 


8  CONTENTS. 

SIROCCO 92 

PACE  IMPLORA 94 

ALONE 97 

IMPLORA ' 99 

THE  QUEST  OF  LOVE 100 

O  LOVE 102 

AFTER  THE  BOAR-HUNT 104 

DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE 107 

To  THE  LION  OF  ST.  MARK 109 

To  THE  LION  OF  ST.  MARK  AGAIN Ill 

UNDER  THE  LION  OF  ST.  MARK  AT  NIGHT     .     .  113 

To  SANTA  BARBARA  OF  VENICE 115 

A  STORM  IN  VENICE 117 

A  HAIL-STORM  IN  VENICE 119 

FAREWELL  TO  THE  LION  OF  ST.  MARK  ....  121 

AFTER  ALL 124 

MAIME  MIA 127 

THE  WINGED  LION  ONCE  MORE 128 

CAVALIER  vs.  CAVALIER 131 

A  PRINCE  OF  ROME 133 

GAMBLER  OR  PRINCE 138 

A  PEASANT'S  PLEA 140 

A  DREAM  OF  VENICE 142 

FOR  THE  NILE 144 

VESPERS  IN  SAN  MARCO 146 

RECOLLECTION                          147 


CONTENTS.  9 

TORCELLO 150 

ATTILA'S  THRONE  :  TORCELLO 151 

SANTA  MARIA  :  TORCELLO 158 

LILIAN 162 

LIFE 164 

IN  PERE  LA  CHAISE 165 

LONGING  FOR  HOME 168 

PESTAM 170 

TITIAN'S  LAND 171 

IN  INNSBRUCK .  173 

FOR  PRINCESS  MAUD 174 

I  SHALL  REMEMBER 176 

VALE  .  178 


SONGS    OF   ITALY. 


ROME. 

i. 

OME  levelled  hills,  a  wall,  a  dome 
That  lords  its   gilded  arch   and 

lies, 

While  at  its  base  a  beggar  cries 
For  bread,  and  dies,  —  and  that  is 
Rome. 


n. 

Yet  Rome  is  Rome  ;  and  Rome  she  must 
And  shall  remain  beside  her  gates, 
And  tribute  take  of  kings  and  States, 
Until  the  stars  have  fallen  to  dust. 


12  SONGS  Of  ITALY. 


m. 

Yea,  Time  on  yon  campagnian  plain 
Has  pitched  in  siege  his  battle  tents ; 
And  round  about  her  battlements 
Has  marched  and  trumpeted  in  vain. 

IV. 

These  skies  are  Rome !     The  very  loam 
Lifts  up  and  speaks  in  Roman  pride  ; 
And  Time,  outfaced  and  still  defied, 
Sits  by  and  wags  his  beard  at  Rome, 

ROME,  1873. 


A   DOVE  OF  ST.  MARK.  13 


A  DOVE  OF  SAINT  MARK. 


r  I  "'HE  high-born  beautiful  snow  came  down, 

Silent  and  soft  as  the  terrible  feet 
Of  Time  on  the  mosses  of  ruins.     Sweet 
Was  the  Christinas  time  in  the  watery  town. 
'Twas  a  kind  of  carnival  swelled  the  sea 
Of  Venice  that  night,  and  canal  and  quay 
Were  alive  with  humanity.     Man  and  maid, 
Glad  in  their  revel  and  masquerade, 
Moved  through  the  feathery  snow  in  the  night, 
And  shook  black  locks  as  they  laughed  out 
right. 


14  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

II. 

From  Santa  Maggiore,  and  to  and  fro, 
And  ugly  and  black  as  if  devils  cast  out, 
Black  streaks  through  the  night  in  the  soft,  white 

snow, 

The  steel-prowed  gondolas  paddled  about : 
There  was  only  the  sound  of  the  long  oars'  dip, 
As  the  low  inoon  sailed  up  the  sea  like  a  ship 
In  a  misty  morn.     Then  the  low  moon  rose, 
Veiled  and  vast,  through  the  feathery  snows  — 
And  a  poet  sat  pensive  and  still  in  his  boa.t, 
His  mantle  held  tight  in  his  hand  to  his  throat. 

m. 

The  dreamer  arose  as  he  drew  to  the  land, 
Threw  back  his  cloak,  stood  tall  and  grand, 
Then  snapped  his  fingers  right  sharp  as  he  leapt 
To  the  shore  and  turned  from  the  quay,  and  kept 
His  white  brow  wrinkled.     He  talked  aloud 
To  himself  as  he  melted  away  with  the  crowd, 
And  the  feathery  snows  blew  out  of  the  town. 
Like  a  signal  light  through  the  night  let  down 
A  far  star  fell  through  the  dim  profound, 
As  a  jewel  that  slipped  God's  hand  to  the  ground. 


A    DOVE   OF  ST.  MARK.  15 

IV. 

"  On  the  gray,  smooth  base  of  your  columned 

stone, 

Grim  old  lion  of  grand  St.  Mark, 
I  shall  sit  me  down  in  your  salt-flood  town, 
While  you  sit  lorded  on  your  granite  throne : 
Down  under  your  wings  on  the  edge  of  the  sea 
In  the  dim  of  the  lamps,  on  the  rim  of  the  dark, 
Alone  and  in  crowds  I  shall  sit  me  down. 
O  King 'on  your  column,  so  sullenly, 
Wrinkle  your  brows  and  tumble  your  mane  ! 
But  the  bride  comes  not  to  her  spouse  again. 

v. 

"  Heavens !  how  beautiful !     Up  and  down, 

Alone  and  in  couples,  they  glide  and  they  pass, 

Silent  and  dreamy,  as  if  seen  in  a  glass, 

And  masked  to  the  eyes,  in  their  Adrian  town. 

Such  women  !     It  breaks  one's  heart  to  think. 

Water !  and  never  a  drop  to  drink ! 

What  types  of  Titian  !     What  glory  of  hair ! 

How  tall  as  the  sisters  of  Saul !     How"  fair  ! 

Sweet  flowers  of  flesh  all  blossoming, 

As  if  'twere  Eden  and  Eden's  spring. 


16  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

VI. 

"  They  are  talking  aloud  with  all  their  eyes, 
Yet  passing  me  by  with  never  one  word. 
O  pouting  sweet  lips,  do  you  know  there  are  lies 
That  are  told  with  the  eyes,  and  never  once 

heard 

Above  a  heart's  beat  when  the  soul  is  stirred  ? 
It  is  time  to  fly  home,  O  doves  of  St.  Mark ! 
Take  boughs  of  the  olive  ;  bear  these  to  your  ark, 
And  rest  and  be  glad,  for  the  seas  and  the  skies 
Of  Venice  are  fair.  .  .  .  What  I  never  a  home  ? 
What!    stained  and  despised  as  the  soiled  sea- 
foam? 

vn. 

"  And  who  then  are  you  ?     You  look  so  fair  I 
Your  sweet  child-face,  as  a  rose  half-blown, 
From  under  your  black  and  abundant  hair?'.  .  . 
A  child  of  the  street,  and  unloved  and  alone  ! 
Unloved  and  alone  ?  .  .  .  There  is  something  then 
Between  us  two  that  is  not  unlike  !  .  .  . 
The  strength  and  the  purposes  of  men 
Fall  broken  idols.     We  aim  and  strike 
With  high-born  zeal  and  with  proud  intent, 
Yet  all  things  turn  on  an  accident. 


A   DOVE   OF  ST.  MARK.  17 

vin. 

"  Nay,  I'll  not  preach.     Time's  lessons  pass 
Like  twilight's  swallows.     They  chirp  in  their 

night, 

And  who  takes  heed  of  the  wasting  glass  ? 
Night  follows  day,  and  day  follows  night, 
And  no  thing  rises  on  earth  but  to  fall 
Like  leaves,  with  their  lessons  most  sad  and  fit. 
They  are  spread  like  a  volume  each  year  to  all : 
Yet  men  nor  women  learn  aught  of  it, 
Or  after  it  all,  but  a  weariness 
Of  soul  and  body,  and  untold  distress. 

IX. 

"  Yea,  sit,  sweet  child,  by  my  side,  and  we  — 
We  will  talk  of  the  world.     Nay,  let  my  hand 
Run  round  your  waist,  and,  so,  let  your  face 
Fall  down  on  my  shoulder,  and  you  shall  be 

My  dream  of  sweet  Italy.     Here  in  this  place, 
i 

Alone  in  the  crowds  of  this  old  careless  land, 
I  will   mantle    your  form    till  the   morn,  and 

then  — 

Why,  I  shall  return  to  the  world  and  to  men, 
And  no  whit  stained  for  the  one  kind  word 

Which  only  you  and  the  night  may  have  heard. 
2 


18  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

X. 

"  Fear  nothing  for  me,  for  I  shall  not  fear. 
The  day,  my  darling,  comes  after  the  night. 
The  nights  they  were  made  to  show  the  light 

Of  the  stars  in  heaven,  tho'  storms  are  near 

Do  you  see  that  figure  of  Fortune  up  there, 
That  tops  the  Dogana  with  toe  a-tip 
Of  the  great  gold  ball  ?     Her  scroll  is  a-trip 
To  the  turning  winds.     She  is  light  as  the  air. 
Well,  trust  to  Fortune.     Bread  on  the  wave 
Turns  ever  ashore  to  the  hand  that  gave. 

XI. 

"  What  am  I  ?   who   am   I  ?    and  what  would 

I  choose? 

Why,  I  am  a  poet  —  a  lover  of  all 
That  is  lovely  to  see. . . .  Nay,  naught  shall  befall, 
For  I  would  not  choose  what  you  should  refuse. 
Yes,  I  am  a  failure.     I  plot  and  plan, 
Give  splendid  advice  to  my  fellow-man, 
Yet  ever  fall  short  of  achievement.  .  .  .  Ah  me ! 
In  my  life's  early,  sad  afternoon, 
Say,  what  have  I  left  but  a  love,  or  a  rune, 
A  hand  reached  out  to  a  soul  at  sea, 
Or  fair,  forbidden,  sweet  fruit  to  choose, 
That  'twere  sin  *to  touch,  and  —  sin  to  refuse  ? 


A   DOVE   OF  ST.  MARK.  19 

xn. 

"  What !  I  to  go  home  with  you,  girl,  to-night? 

To  nestle  you  down  and  to  call  you  love  ? 

Well,  that  were  a  fancy !     To  feed  a  dove, 

A  poor,  soiled  dove  of  this  dear  Saint  Mark, 

Too  frightened  for  rest  and  too  weary  for  flight. 

Nay,  nay,  my  sister ;  in  spite  of  you, 

Sister  and  tempter,  I  will  be  true. 

Lo !  here  by  the  lion,  alone  in  the  dark, 

Side  by  side  we  two  will  sit  here, 

Breathing  the  beauty  as  an  atmosphere. 

yrrr. 

"  We  will  talk  of  your  poets,  of  their  tales  of 

love. 

What !  cannot  read  ?    Why  you  never  heard  then 
Of  your  Desdemona,  nor  the  daring  men 
Who  died  for  passion  ?     My  poor  white  dove  ! 
There's  a  story  of  Shylock  that  would  drive  you 

wild.  —  •> 

You  never  have  heard  of  your  poets,  my  child  ? 
Of  Tasso,  of  Petrarch  ?  Not  the  Bridge  of  Sighs  ? 
Nor  the  tale  of  Ferrara  ?  Nor  the  thousand  whys 
That  your  Venice  was  ever  adored  above 
All  other  fair  lands  for  her  songs  of  love  ? 


20  SOJVGS  OF  ITALY. 

XIV. 
"What  then  about   Shylock?      'Twas  gold  — 

yes  —  dead. 

The  lady?     'Twas  love.     Why,  yes;  she  too 
Is  dead.     And  Byron  ?     'Twas  fame  —  ah,  true. 
Tasso  and  Petrarch  ?     They  perished  the  same. 
Yes,  so  endeth  all,  as  you  well  have  said. 
And  you,  poor  child,  are  too  wise,  and  you, 
Too  sudden,  sad  child,  in  your  hard  ugly"  youth, 

• 

Have  stumbled  face  fronting  an  obstinate  truth. 
For  whether  for  love,  for  gold,  or  for  fame, 
They  but  lived   their  day,  and  they  died  the 

same. 

xv. 

"  But  talk  not  of  death :  of  death,  or  the  life 
That  comes  after  death.    'Tis  beyond  your  reach, 
And   this   too   much   thought    has   a   sense    of 

strife  .  .  . 

Ay,  true  ;  I  promised  you  not  to  preach  .  .  . 
My  maid  of  Venice,  or  maid  unmade, 
Lie  still  on  my  bosom.    'Be  not  afraid. 
What !     Say  you  are  hungry  ?    Well,  let  us  dine 
Till  the  near  morn  comes  on  the  silver  shine 
Of  the  lamp-lit  sea.     At  dawn  of  day, 
Child  of  the  street,  you  can  go  your  way. 


A   DOVE   OF  ST,  MARK..  21 

XVI. 

Your  mother's  palace  ?    I  know  your  town ; 
Know  every  nook  of  it,  left  and  right. 
As  well  as  yourself.     For  up  and  down 
Your  salt-flood  streets,  for  many  a  night, 
I  have  rowed  and  roved  with  a  lady  fair 
As  the  face  of  heaven.     Nay,  I  know  there 
Is  no  such  a  palace.     What !  you  dare 
To  look  in  my  face,  to  lie  outright, 
To  bend  your  brows,  and  to  frown  me  down  ? 
There  is  no  such  a  place  in  that  part  of  the  town ! 

XVII. 

"  What !  woo  me  away  to  your  ricket}r  boat, 
To  pick  my  pockets,  to  cut  my  throat, 
With  help  of  your  pirates  ?    Then  throw  me  out, 
Loaded  with  stones  to  sink  me  down, 
Down  into  the  filth  and  dregs  of  the  town  ? 
Why,  that  is  your  damnable  aim,  no  doubt ! 
And,  beautiful  child,  you  seem  too  fair, 
Too  young,  for  even  a  thought  like  that ; 
Too  young  for  even  the  soul  to  dare  —  ' 
Ay,  even  the  serpent  to  whisper  at. 


22  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

XVIII. 

"  Now,  there  is  such  a  thing  as  being  true 
Even  in  villany.     Listen  to  me  : 
Black-skinned  women  and  low-browed  men, 
And  desperate  robbers  and  thieves  ;  and  then, 
Why,  there  are  the   pirates!     Ay,   pirates  re 

formed, 

Pirates  reformed  and  unreformed  : 
Pirates  for  me,  friends  for  you.  — 
And  these  are  your  neighbors.     And  so  you  see 
That  I  know  your  town,  your  neighbors  :  and  I  — 
Well,  pardon  me,  girl,  —  but  I  know  you  lie. 


"  Tut,  tut,  my  beauty  !     What  trickery  now  ? 
Why,  tears  through  your  hair  on  my  hand  like 

rain  !     • 

Come  !  look  in  my  face  :  laugh,  lie  again 
With  your  wonderful  eyes.     Lift  up  your  brow. 
Come  !  shake  your  fist  at  the  world,  and  defy 
The  world.     Now,  this  lying  is  no  new  thing  — 
The  wearers  of  laces  know  well  how  to  lie  ; 
As  well,  ay,  better,  than  you  or  I.  ... 
They  lie  for  fortune,  for  fame  :  instead, 
You,  child  of  the  street,  only  lie  for  your  bread. 


A   DOVE   OF  ST,  MARK.  23 


XX. 

"  Some  sounds  blow  in  from  the  distant  land  ; 
The  bells  strike  sharp,  and  as  out  of  tune, 
Some  sudden,  short  notes.     To  the  east  and  afar, 
And  up  from  the  sea,  is  lifting  a  star 
As  large,  my  beautiful  child,  and  as  white 
And  as  lovely  to  see  as  your  little  white  hand. 
The  people  have  melted  away  with  the  night, 
And  not  one  gondola  frets  the  lagoon. 
See !     Away  to  the  east  —  'tis  the  face  of  morn. 
Hear !     Away  to  the  west  —  'tis  the  fisherman's 
horn. 

XXI. 

"  'Tis  morn  in  Venice  !     My  child,  adieu ! 
Arise,  poor  beauty,  and  go  your  way ; 
And  as  for  myself,  why,  much  like  you, 
I  must  sell  this  Sjtory  to  who  may  pay 
And  dares  to  reckon  it  brave  and  meet. 
Yea,  each  of  us  traders,  poor  child  of  pain  ; 
For  each  must  barter  for  bread  to  eat 
In  a  world  of  trade  and  an  age  of  gain  ; 
With  just  this  difference,  child  of  the  street : 
You  sell  your  body,  I  sell  my  brain. 


21  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

xxn. 

"  Why,  child,  what  a  wreck !     Lo,  here  you  reel, 
Poor,  wrecked  little  vessel,  with  never  a  keel ; 
With  never  a  soul  to  advise  or  to  care  : 
You  lie  like  a  sea-weed,  well  astrand, 
Blown  like  the  sea-foam  hard  on  the  sand, 
A  poor,  white  body,  with  never  a  hand 
Reached  out  from  the  land,  though  you  sink  and 

die, — 

All  covered  with  sin  to  the  brows  and  hair, 
Left  all  alone  to  starve  or  to  lie, 
Or  to  sell  your  body  to  who  may  buy. 

XXIII. 

"  Child  of  the  street,  I  will  kiss  you !     Yea, 
I  will  fold  you  and  hold  you  close  to  my  breast. 
And  as  you  lie  resting  in  your  first  rest, 
And  as  night  is  pushed  back  from  the  face  of  day, 
I  will  push  your  tumbled  and  long,  strong  hair 
Well  back  from  your  face,  and  kiss  you  where 
Your  ruffian,  bearded,  black  men  of  crime 
Have  stung  you  and  stained  you  a   thousand 

time ; 

And  call  you  my  sister,  sweet  child,  as  you  s^eep, 
And  waken  you  not,  lest  you  wake  but  to  weep. 


A   DOVE   OF  ST.  MARK.  25 

XXIV. 

"  Yea,  tenderly  kiss  you.     And  I  shall  not  be 
Ashamed,  nor  stained  in  the  least,  sweet  dove,  — 
Tenderly  kiss,  with  the  kiss  of  Love, 
And  of  Faith  and  of  Hope  and  of  Charity. 
Nay,  I  shall  be  purer  and  better  then  ; 
For,  child  of  the  street,  you,  living  or  dead, 
Stained  to  the  brows,  are  purer  to  me 
Ten  thousand  times  than  the  world  of  men, 
Who  but  reach  you  a  hand  to  lead  you  astray.  — 
But  the  dawn  is  upon  us  !     Rise,  go  your  way. 

XXV. 

"  Here  !  take  this  money.     Take  it,  and  say, 
When  you  have  awakened  and  I  am  away, 
Roving  the  world  and  forgetting  of  you  ; 

When  you  have  aroused  from  your  brief  little  rest, 

T 
And   find  these   francs  nestled  down   in  your 

breast, 

And  rough  men  question  you,  —  why,  then  say 
That  Madonna  sent  them.    Then  kneel  and  pray, 
And  pray  for  me,  the  worst  of  the  two  : 
Then  God  will  bless  you,  sweet  child,  and  you 
Shall  be  mine  angel  my  whole  life  through. 


26  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

XXVI. 

"  Take  this. money  and  buy  you  bread, 
And  eat  and  rest  while  a  year  wears  through. 
Then,  rising  refreshed,  try  virtue  instead ; 
Be  stronger  and  better,  poor,  pitiful  dear, 
So  prompt  with  a  falsehood,  prompt  with  a  tear, 
For  the  hand  grows  stronger  as  the  heart  grows 

true. 

Take  courage,  my  child,  for  I  promise  you 
We  are  judged  by  our  chances  of  life  and  lot, 
And  your  poor  little  soul  may  yet  pass  through 
The  eye  of  the  needle,  where  laces  shall  not. 

xxvn. 

"  Poor  dove  of  the  dust,  with  tear-wet  wings, 
Homeless  and  lone  as  the  dove  from  its  ark,  — 
Do  you  reckon  yon  angel  that  tops  St.  Mark, 
That  tops  the  tower,  that  tops  the  town, 
If  he  knew  us  two,  if  he  knew  all  things, 
Would  say,  poor  child,  you  are  worse  than  I  ? 
Do  you  reckon  yon  angel,  looking  down 
And  down  like  a  star,  he  hangs  so  high, 
Could  tell  which  one  were  the  worst  of  us  two  ? 
Child  of  the  street —  it  is  not  you ! 


A   DOVE   OF  ST.  MARK.  27 


xxvm. 

"  If  we  two  were  dead,  and  laid  side  by  side 
Right  here  on  the  pavement,  this  very  day, 
Here  under  the  lion  and  over  the  sea, 
Where  the  morn  flows  in  like  a  rosy  tide, 
And  the  sweet  Madonna  that  stands  in  the  moon, 
With  her  crown  of  stars,  just  across  the  lagoon, 
Should  come  and  should  look  upon  you  and  me,  — 
Do  you  reckon,  my  child,  that  she  would  decide, 
As  men  do  decide  and  as  women  do  say, 
That  you  are  so  dreadful,  and  turn  away  ? 

XXIX. 

"  If  the  angel  were  sent  to  choose  to-day 

Between  us  two  as  we  lay  here, 

Dead  and  alone  in  this  desolate  place,  — 

You,  white  with  a  hunger  and  stained  with  a  tear, 

Or  I,  the  rover  the  whole  world  through, 

Restless  and  stormy  as  any  sea,  — 

If  the  angel  were  sent  to  choose,  I  say, 

This  very  moment  the  best  of  the  two, 

Looking  us  two  right  straight  in  the  face, 

Child  of  the  street,  he  would  not  choose  me. 


28  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

XXX. 

"  The  fresh  sun  is  falling  on  turret  and  tower, 
The  far  sun  is  flashing  on  spire  and  dome, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  bursting  to  flower, 
The  marbles  of  Venice  are  flower  and  foam  : 
Child  of  the  street,  oh,  waken  you  now ! 
There !  bear  my  kiss  on  your  brave  white  brow, 
Through  earth  to  heaven :  and  when  we  meet 
Beyond  the  waters,  poor  waif  of  the  street, 
Why,  then  I  shall  know  you,  my  sad,  sweet  dove, 
And  claim  you  and  kiss  you  with  the  kiss  of  love. 

VENICE,  1873. 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE.  29 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE. 

i. 

"JVTIGHT  seems  troubled  and  scarce  asleep  ; 
Her  brows  are  gathered  in  broken  rest. 
A  star  in  the  east  starts  up  from  the  deep ! 
Sullen  old  lion  of  loved  Saint  Mark, 
Lord  of  the  deep,  high-throned  in  the  dark  ! 
'Tis  morn,  new-born,  with  a  star  on  her  breast, 
White  as  my  lilies  that  grow  in  the  West ! 

Hist !  men  are  passing  me  hurriedly. 

I  see  the  yellow  wide  wings  of  a  bark ! 

Sail  silently  oyer  my  morning-star, 

And  on  and  in  to  an  amber  sea. 

I  see  men  move  in  the  moving  dark, 

Tall  and  silent  as  columns  are, 

Girded  and  patient  as  Destiny ; 

Great,  sinewy  men  that  are  good  to  see, 

With  hair  pushed  back,  and  with  open  breasts  ; 

Barefooted  fishermen,  seeking  their  boats, 

Brown  as  walnuts  and  hairy  as  goats,  — 

Brave  old  water-dogs,  wed  to  the  sea, 

First  to  their  labors  and  last  to  their  rests. 


30  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

n. 

Ships  are  moving  I     I  hear  a  horn  — 

A  silver  trumpet  it  sounds  to  me, 

Deep-voiced  and  musical,  far  at  sea  .  .  . 

Answers  back,  and  again  it  calls. 

'Tis  the  sentinel  boats  that  watch  the  town 

All  night,  as  mounting  her  watery  walls, 

And  watching  for  pirate  or  smuggler.     Down 

Over  the  sea,  and  reaching  away, 

And  against  the  east,  a  soft  light  falls 

Silvery  soft  as  the  mist  of  morn, 

And  I  catch  a  breath  like  the  breath  of  day. 

m. 

The  east  is  blossoming  I     Yea,  a  rose, 
Vast  as  the  heavens,  soft  as  a  kiss, 
Sweet  as  the  presence  of  woman  is, 
Rises  and  reaches,  and  widens  and  grows 
Large  and  luminous  up  from  the  sea, 
And  out  of  the  sea,  as  a  blossoming  tree. 

Richer  and  richer,  so  higher  and  higher, 
Deeper  and  deeper  it  takes  its  hue  ; 


SUNRISE  IN  VENICE.  31 

Brighter  and  brighter  it  reaches  through 
The  space  of  heaven  and  the  place  of  stars, 
Till  all  is  as  rich  as  a  rose  can  be, 
And  my  rose-leaves  fall  into  billows  of  fire. 
Then  beams  reach  upward  as  arms  from  a  sea ; 
Then  lances  and  arrows  are  aimed  at  me. 
Then  lances  and  spangles  and  spars  and  bars 
Are  broken  and  shivered  and  strown  on  the  sea ; 
And  around  and  about  me  tower  and  spire 
Start  from  the  billows  like  tongues  of  fire. 

VENICE,  1874. 


32  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


PALATINE    HILL. 

i. 

A     WOLF-LIKE  stream  without  a  sound 
Steals  by  and  hides  beneath  the  shore, 
Its  awful  secrets  evermore 
Within  its  sullen  bosom  bound. 

n. 

And  this  was  Rome,  that  shrieked  for  room 
To  stretch  her  limbs  !     A  hill  of  caves 
For  half- wild  beasts  and  hairy  slaves ; 
And  gypsies  tent  within  her  tomb ! 

m. 

Two  lone  palms  on  the  Palatine, 
Two  rows  of  cypress  black  and  tall, 
With  white  roots  set  in  Csesar's  Hall,  — 
A  garden,  convent,  and  sweet  shrine. 


PALATINE  HILL.  33 


IV. 

Tall  cedars  on  a  broken  wall, 
That  look  away  toward  Lebanon, 
And  seem  to  mourn  for  grandeur  gone : 
A  wolf,  an  owl,  —  and  that  is  all. 

EOME,  September,  1873. 


34  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


IN  A   GONDOLA. 

i. 

night  in  Venice.     Then  down  to  the 
tide, 

Where  a  tall  and  a  shadowy  gondolier 
Leaned  on  his  oar,  like  a  lifted  spear  :  — 
'Twas  night  in  Venice ;  then  side  by  side 
We  sat  in  his  boat.     Then  oar  a-trip 
On  the  black  boat's  keel,  then  dip  and  dip  ;  — 
These  boatmen  should  build  their  boats   more 

wide, 
For  we  were  together,  and  side  by  side. 

H. 

The  sea  it  was  level  as  seas  of  light, 
As  still  as  the  light  ere  a  hand  was  laid 
To  the  making  of  lands,  or  the  seas  were  made. 
'Twas  fond  as  a  bride  on  her  bridal  night 
When  a  great  love  swells  in  her  soul  like  a  sea, 
And  makes  her  but  less  than  divinity. 
'Twas  night,  —  The  soul  of  the  day,  I  wis : 
A  woman's  face  hiding  from  her  first  kiss. 


IN  A    GONDOLA.  35 


m. 

'Twas  night  in  Venice.     On  o'er  the  tide  — 
These  boats  they  are  narrow  as  they  can  be, 
These  crafts  they  are  narrow  enough,  and  we, 
To  balance  the  boat,  sat  side  by  side  — 
Out  under  the  arch  of  the  Bridge  of  Sighs, 
On  under  the  arch  of  the  star-sown  skies  : 
We  two  were  together  on  the  Adrian  Sea,  — 
The  one  fair  woman  of  the  world  to  me. 

IV. 

These  narrow-built  boats,  they  rock  when  at  sea, 
And  they  make  one  afraid.     So  she  leaned  to  me ; 
And  that  is  the  reason  alone  there  fell 
Such  golden  folds  pf  abundant  hair 
Down  over  my  shoulder,  as  we  sat  there. 
.These  boatmen  should  build  their  boats  more 

wide, 

Wider  for  lovers  ;  as  wide  —  Ah,  well ! 
But  who  is  the  rascal  to  kiss,  and  tell  ? 

VENICE,  1874. 


36  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


COMO. 

*"THHE  red-clad  fishers  row  and  creep 
Below  the  crags,  as  half  asleep, 
Nor  ever  make  a  single  sound. 

The  walls  are  steep, 

The  waves  are  deep ; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  these  same  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drowned  ? 

i. 

The  lakes  lay  bright  as  bits  of  broken  moon 
Just  newly  set  within  the  cloven  earth  ; 
The  ripened  fields  drew  round  a  golden  girth 
Far  up  the  steeps,  and  glittered  in  the  noon ; 
And,  when  the  sun  fell  down,  from  leafy  shore 
Fond  lovers  stole  in  pairs  to  ply  the  oar. 
The  stars,  as  large  as  lilies,  flecked  the  blue  ; 
From   out  the  Alps  the  moon  came  wheeling 

through 
The  rocky  pass  the  great  Napoleon  knew. 


COMO.  37 

n. 

A  gala  night  it  was,  —  the  season's  prime. 
We  rode  from  castled  lake  to  festal  town, 
To  fair  Milan  —  my  friend  and  I  ;  rode  down 
By    night,    where    grasses    waved    in    rippled 

rhyme  : 

And  so,  what  theme  but  love  at  such  a  time  ? 
His  proud  lip  curled  the  while  with  silent  scorn 
At  thought  of  love  ;  and  then,  as  one  forlorn, 
He  sighed  ;  then  bared  his  temples,  dashed  with 

gray  ; 
Then  mocked,  as  one  outworn  and  well 


m. 

A  gorgeous  tiger  lily,  flaming  red,  — 

So  full  of  battle,  of  the  trumpet's  blare, 

Of  old-time  passion,  —  upreared  its  head. 

I  galloped  past.     I  leaned,  I  clutched  it  there 

From  out  the  long,  strong  grass.    I  held  it  high, 

And  cried  :  "  Lo  !  this  to-night  shall  deck  her  hair 

Through  all  the  dance.     And  mark  !  the  man 

shall  die 

Who  dares  assault,  for  good  or  ill  design, 
The  citadel  where  I  shall  set  this  sign." 


^86014 


38  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

IT. 

He  spake  no  spare  word  all  the  after  while. 
That  scornful,  cold,  contemptuous  smile  of  his  I 
And  in  the  hall  the  same  old,  hateful  smile  ! 
Why,  better  men  have  died  for  less  insult  than 

this. 

Then  marvel  not  that  when  she  graced  the  floor, 
With  all  the  beauties  gathered  from  the  four 
Far  quarters  of  the  world,  and  she,  my  fair, 
The  fairest,  wore  within  her  midnight  hair 
My  tiger  lily,  —  marvel  not,  I  say, 
That  he  glared  like  some  wild  beast  well  at  bay. 

v. 

Oh,  she  shone  fairer  than  the  summer  star, 
Or  curled,  sweet  moon  in  middle  destiny ; 
More  fair  than  sunrise  climbing  up  the  sea, 
Where  all  the  loves  of  Adriana  are. 
Who  loves,  who  truly  loves,  will  stand  aloof: 
The  noisy  tongue  makes  most  unholy  proof 
Of  shallow  passion.  .  .  .  All  the  while  afar 
From  out  the  dance  I  stood  and  watched  my 

star, 
My  tiger  lily  borne  an  oriflamme  of  war. 


COMO.  39 

VI. 

Italia's  beauties  blushed  at  love's  advance. 
Like  bright  white  mice   in  moonlight  at  their 

play, 

Or  sunfish  shooting  in  some  shining  bay, 
The  swift  feet  shot  and  glittered  in  the  dance. 
Oh,  have  you  loved  and  truly  loved,  and  seen 
Aught   else  the  while  than  your  own  stately 

queen  ? 

Her  presence  it  was  majesty  —  so  tall ; 
Her  proud  development  encompassed  all. 
She  filled  all  space.     I  sought,  I  saw  but  her : 
I  followed  as  some  fervid  worshipper. 

VII. 

A  down  the  dance  she   moved  with   matchless 

grace. 
The    world — my    world  —  moved    with     her. 

Suddenly 

I  questioned  whom  her  cavalier  might  be  ? 
'Twas  he  !     His  face  was  leaning  to  her  face  ! 
I  clutched  my  blade  ;    I  sprang ;  I  caught  my 

breath,  — 
And  so,  stood  leaning  cold  and  still  as  death. 


40  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

And  they  stood  still.     She  blushed,  then  reached 

and  tore 

The  lily  as  she  passed,  and  down  the  floor 
She    strewed   its    heart   like    bits   of   gushing 

gore.  .  .  . 

vm. 

'Twas  he  said  heads,  not  hearts,  were  made  to 

break : 

He  taught  me  this  that  night  in  splendid  scorn. 
I  learned  too  well.  .  .  .  The  dance  was  done.  Ere 

morn 
We     mounted  —  he    and    I  —  but     no     more 

spake.  .  .  . 

And  this  for  woman's  love!  My  lily  worn 
In  her  dark  hair  in  pride,  to  then  be  torn 
And  trampled  on,  for  this  bold  stranger's 

sake !  .  .  . 

Two  men  rode  silent  back  toward  the  lake ; 
Two  men  rode  silent  down  —  but  only  one 
Rode  up  at  morn  to  meet  the  rising  sun. 

The  walls  are  steep  ; 
The  crags  shall  keep 


COMO.  41 

Their  everlasting  watch  profound. 

The  walls  are  steep, 

The  waves  are  deep  ; 
And  if  a  dead  man  should  be  found 
By  red-clad  fishers  in  their  round, 
Why,  who  shall  say  but  he  was  drowned  ? 

LAKE  COMO,  1874. 


42  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


A   GARIBALDIAN'S   STORY. 

i. 

,    signer !  that's  Nervi,   just  under  the 

V     1,4. 

lights 
That  look  down  from  the  forts  on  the  Genoese 

heights ; 

And  that  stone  set  in  stone  in  the  rim  of  the  sea, 
Like  a  tall  figure  rising  and  reaching  a  hand, 
Marks  the  spot  where    the  chief   and  his  red- 

shirted  band 
Hoisted  sail.  .  .  .  Have  a  light  ?    Ah,  yes :  as 

for  me 

I  have  lights,  and  a  leg  —  short  a  leg,  as  you  see ; 
And  have  three  fingers  hewn  from  this  strong 

sabre-hand. 

n. 
"  See  that  cursed  cowled  monk,  black-mantled, 

and  black 
In  his  heart  as  the  plague,  or  the  stole  at  his 

back, 


A    GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY.  43 

Stealing  by  like  a  spy  down  that  sweet  wooded 

way? 
Well,  these  were  the  fellows  we  grappled.     Why 

they  — 
They  were   thick    in  the    land  as   the  locusts. 

The  land 

Was  eaten  alive  by  their  indolence.     Yea, 
They  did  toil  not  nor  spin,  and  yet  their  array 
Was  as  purple  and  gold ;  and  they  laid  heavy 

hand 
On  the  first  of  the  fruits,  of  the  flocks ;  and  the 

gown 
Soiled  the  first  fairest  maidens  of  country  and 

town. 

ill. 

"  Look  you  there  !  Do  you  see  where  the  blue 
bended  floors 

Of  the  heavens  are  frescoed  with  stars  ?  See 
the  heights, 

Then  the  bent  hills  beneath,  where  the  grape- 
growers'  doors 

Open  out  and  look  down  in  a  crescent  of  lights  ? 

WellfHhere  I  was  born ;  grew  tall.  Then  the 
call 


44  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

For  bold  men  for  Sicily. 

I  rose  from  the  vines, 

Shook  back  my  long  hair,  looked  forth,  then  let 

fall 
My  dull   pruning-hook,  and  stood  full  in  the 

lines. 
Then  my  young  promised  bride  held  her  head 

to  her  breast 
As  a  sword  trailed  the  stones,  and  I  strode  with 

a  zest. 
But  a  sable-cowled  monk  girt  his  gown,  and 

looked  down 
With  a  leer  in  her  face,  as  I  turned  from  the 

town. 

IV. 
"  Then  from  yonder  green  hills  bending  down  to 

the  seas, 
Grouping  here,  grouping  there,  in  the  gray  olive 

trees, 

We  watched  the  slow  sun  ;  slow  saw  him  retire 
At  last  in  the  sea,  like  a  vast  isle  of  fire. 
Then  the  chief  drew  his  sword  : 

There  was  that  in  his  air, 
As  the  care  on  his  face  came  and  went  and  still 

came, 


A    GARIBALDIAWS  STORY.  45 

As  lie  gazed  out  at  sea,  and  yet  gazed  anywhere, 
That  meant  more,  signor,  more  than  a  peasant 

can  say. 
Then  at  last,  when  the  stars  in  the  soft-tempered 

breeze 
Glowed  red  and  grew  large,  as  if  fanned  to  a 

flame, 

Lo  !  something  shot  up  from  a  black-muffled  ship 
Deep  asleep  in  the  bay,  like  a  star  gone  astray : 
Then  down,  double  quick,  with  the  sword-hilt 

a-trip, 
Came    the  troop  with  a  zest,  and  —  that  stone 

tells  the  rest. 

V. 

"  Hot  times  at  Marsala  !  and  then  under  Rome 
It  was  hell  sure  enough,  and  a  whole  column  fell 
Like  new  vines  in  a  frost. 

Then  year  followed  year, 

Until,  stricken  and  sere,  at  last  I  came  home  — 
As  the  strife  lulled  a  spell,  came  limping  back 

here  — 

Stealing  back  to  my  home,  limping  up  out  of  hell. 
But  we  won,  did  we  not  ?    Won,  I  scarcely  know 

what  — 


46  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Yet  the  whole  land  is  free  from  the  Alps  to  the 

sea. 
Ah!  my  young  promised  bride?     Christ,  that 

cuts  !     Why,  I  thought 
That  her  face  had  gone  by,  like  a  dream  that  was 

not. 

Yl. 

"  What  a  presence  was  hers !     What  a  throat, 

what  a  mouth ! 
Why,  a  mouth  that  Rossetti,  the  painter,  had 

smiled 
But  to  see  ;  had  caught  it  on  canvas,  had  set  his 

craft  wild 
With    talk  of   his    picture  from    Northland  to 

South!  — 

A  mouth  that  half  opened  as  hungered  for  love, 
That  trusted  all  things  ;  a  mouth  that  went  out 
With  daring  and  valor,  that  never  knew  doubt, 
Yet  was  proud  and  as  pure  as  that  bent  moon 

above.  .  .  . 

vn. 

..."  Yes,  peaches  must  ripen  and  show  the  sun's 

red 
In  their  time,  I  suppose,  like  the  full  of  a  rose  ; 


A    GARIBALDIAWS  STORY.  47 

And  some  one  must  pluck  them,  'tis -very  well 

said, 
As  they  swell  and  grow  rich  and  look  luscious  to 

touch : 
Yet  I  fancy  some  men,  some  fiends,  must  have 

much 

To  repent  of:  This  reaching  up  rudely  of  hand 
For  the  early  sweet-fruits  of  a  warm,  careless 

land ; 

This  plucking  and  biting  of  every  sweet  peach 
Ere  yet  it  is  ripe  and  come  well  to  its  worth, 
Then  casting  it  down,  and  quite  spoiled,  to  the 

reach 
Of  the  swine  and  the  things  that  creep  close  to 

the  earth.  .  .  . 

vm. 

"But  he  died  !     Look  you  here.     Stand  aside. 

Yes,  he  died 

Like  a  dog  in  a  ditch.     In  that  low  battle-moat 
He  was  found  on  a  morn.     The  red  line  on  his 

throat 
They  said  was  a  rope.      '  Bah  !  the  one-fingered 

man 
Might  have  done  it,'  said  one. 


48  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Then  I  laughed  till  I  cried 
When  the  guard  led  me  forth,  and  the  judge  sat 

to  scan 
My  hands  and  my  strength,  and  to  question  me 

sore: 
4  Why,  what  has  the  match-man  to  do  with  all 

this,  — 

The  one-fingered  man,  with  his  life  gone  amiss  ? ' 
I  cried  as  I  laughed,  and  they  vexed  me  no  more. 

Some  men  must  fill  trenches.     Ten  thousand  go 

down 

As  unnamed  and  unknown  as  the  stones  in  a  wall, 
For  the  few  to  pass  over  and  on  to  renown  : 

And  I  am  of  these. 

The  old  king  has  his  crown, 

And  my  country  is  free  ;  and  what  more,  after  all, 
Did  I  ask  from  the  first  ? 

Don't  you  think  that  yon  lights 
Through  the  black  olive  trees  look  divine  on  the 

seas? 

Then  look  you  above,  where  the  Apennines  bend : 
Why,  you  scarcely  can  tell,  as  you  peer  through 

the  trees, 
Where  the  great  stars  begin  or  the  cottage-lights 

end ! 


A    GARIBALDIAN'S  STORY.  49 

IX. 

"  Yes,  a  little  bit  lonely,  that  can't  be  denied : 
But  as  good  place  to  wait  for  a  sign  as  may  be. 
I  shall  watch  on  the  shore,  looking  out  as  before  ; 
And  the  chief  on  his  isle  in  the  calm  middle  sea, 
With  his  sword  gathered  up,  stands  waiting  with 

me 
For  the  great  silent  ship. 

We  shall  cross  to  the  shore 
Where  a  white  city  lies  like  yon  Alps  in  the  skies, 
And  look  down  on  this  sea ;  and  right  well 

satisfied. 

x. 
"Ay !  The  whole  country  round  vaunts  our  deed, 

and  the  town 
Raised  that  shaft  on  the  spot,  —  for  the  whole 

land  is  free  ; 

And  some  won  renown,  and  one  won  a  crown, 
And  one  won  a  right  to  sell  lights  by  the  sea. 
Have  a  light,  sir,  to-night  ?  Ah,  thanks,  signer, 

'  thanks ! 
Bon  voyage,  bon  voyage !     Bless  you  and  your 

francs." 

* 

GENOA,  October,  1873. 


50  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


THE  IDEAL   AND   THE   REAL. 

PART  I. 

"  And  full  these  truths  eternal 
O'er  the  yearning  spirit  steal, 
That  the  real  is  the  ideal, 
And  the  ideal  is  the  real." 

I. 

OHE  was  damned  with  the  dower  of  beauty.  She 

Had  gold  in  shower  about  her  brow. 
Her  feet !  —  why,  her  two  blessed  feet  were  so 

small 
They  could  nest  in  this  hand.     When  she  stood 

up  so  tall, 

So  gracious,  so  grand,  she  was  all  to  me,  — 
My  present,  my  past,  my  eternity !  .  .  . 
She  lives  in  my  dreams.     I  behold  her  now 
On  that  shoreless  white  river  that  flowed  like  a  sea 
At  her  feet  where  I  sat.  .  .  .  How  her  lips  pushed 

out 
In  their  brave,  warm  welcome  of  dimple  and  pout ! 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.  51 

n. 

'Twas  eons  agone.     By  a  river  that  ran 

Fathomless,  echoless,  limitless,  on, 

And  shoreless,  and  peopled  with  never  a  man,  — 

We  met,  soul  to  soul.  .  .  .  No  land ;  yet  I  think 

There  were  willows  and  lilies  that  leaned  to  drink. 

The  stars  were  all  sealed  and  the  moons  were  gone. 

The  wide  shining  circles  that  girdled  that  world, 

They  were  distant  and  dim.     An  incense  curled 

In  vapory  folds  from  that  river  that  ran 

All  shoreless,  with  never  the  presence  of  man. 

m. 

How  sensuous  the  night]  how  soft  was  the  sound 
Of  her  voice  on  the  night !    How  warm  was  her 

breath 

In  that  world  that  had  never  yet  tasted  of  death 
Or  forbidden  sweet  fruit !  ...  In  that  far  pro 
found 

We  were  camped  on  the  edges  of  god-land.  We 
Were  the  people  of  Saturn.  The  watery  fields, 
The  wide-winged,  dolorous  birds  of  the  sea,  — 
They  acknowledged  but  us.  Our  battle-shields 
Were  my  naked  white  palms  ;  our  food  it  was  love. 
Our  roof  was  the  fresco  of  stars  above. 


52  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

IV. 

How  tender  she  was,  and  how  timid  she  was ! 
How  turned  she  to  me  where  that  wide  river  ran, 
With  its  lilies  and  willows  and  watery  reeds, 
And  heeded  as  only  your  true  love  heeds !  .  .  . 
But  a  black-hoofed  beast,  with  the  head  of  a  man, 
Stole  down  where  she  sat  at  my  side,  and  began 
To  puff  his  cheeks,  then  to  play,  then  to  pause, 
With  his  double-reed  pipe ;  then  to  play  and  to  play 
As  never  played  man  since  the  world  began, 
And  never  shall  play  till  the  judgment  day. 

V. 

How  he  puffed !   how  he  played !    Then  adown 

the  dim  shore, 

This  half-devil  man,  all  hairy  and  black, 
Did  dance  with  his  hoofs  in  the  sand,  looking  back 
As  his  song  died  away. . . .  She  turned  never  more 
Unto  me  after  that.     She  arose,  and  she  pass'd 
Right  on  from  my  sight.    Then  I  followed  as  fast 
As  a  love  could  follow.     But  ever  before 
Like  a  spirit  she  fled.     How  vain  and  how  far 
Did  I  follow  my  beauty  from  star  to  white  star ! 
From  foamy  white  sea,  and  from  stormy  black 

shore. 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.          53 

VI. 

But  I  here  shall  abide.     I  shall  pipe  on  a  reed. 
I  shall  sit  by  the  waters  my  whole  life  through. 
I  shall  sing  wild  songs.     I  shall  take  no  heed 
Of  the  tilings  forbidden,  or  of  bitter-sweet  fruit. 
I  shall  feast  with  the  gods.    I  shall  sing  for  the  few. 
I  shall  pipe  not  for  love.     I  shall  reach  my  hand, 
And  pluck  fair  lilies  from  the  bank  by  the  root. 
I  shall  laugh  like  a  satyr.    I  shall  dance  on  the  sand, 
I  shall  rove  o'er  the  sea,  I  shall  rest  by  the  shore ; 
But  never  seek  love  upon  earth  any  more. 

VII. 

Never  more  upon  earth  1     Yet  the  heaven-bound 

span 

Of  life  upon  earth,  —  lo,  it  is  but  to-day  ! 
Last  night  was  the  land  that  remembers  no  man, 
To-morrow   the    skies!    .  .  .   Then    who   shall 

gainsay 

The  valor  of  patience  ?     Lo !  there  I  shall  woo 
In  the  gardens  of  God,  on  the  centremost  star 
Of  all  whirling  stars.     Face  front  I  shall  view 
This  one  splendid  face  I  have  followed  so  far. 
There  love  shall  heal  love  of  her  hard  battle-scars, 
Begun  on  the  outermost  edge  of  the  stars. 


54  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

vm. 

How  long  I  had  sought  her !     My  soul  of  fire 
It  had  fed  on  itself.     I  fasted,  I  cried  ; 
Was  tempted  by  many.     Yet  still  I  denied 
The  touch  of  all  things,  and  kept  my  desire.  .  .  . 
I  stood  by  the  lion  of  St.  Mark  in  that  hour 
Of  Venice,  when  gold  of  the  sunset  is  rolled 
From  cloud  to  cathedral,  to  turret  and  tower, 
In  matchless,  magnificent  garment  of  gold. 
Then  I  knew  she  was  near ;  yet  I  had  not  known 
Her  form  or  her  face  since  the  stars  were  sown. 

IX. 

We  two  had  been  parted —  God  pity  us !  —  when 
The  stars  were  unnamed  and  all  heaven  was 

dim  ; 

We  two  had  been  parted  far  back  on  the  rim 
And  the  outermost  border  of  heaven's  red  bars ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  the  meeting  of  men, 
Or  God  had  set  compass  on  spaces  as  yet ; 
We  two  had  been  parted  ere  God  had  set 
His  finger  to  spinning  the  purple  with  stars,  — 
And  now,  at  the  last  in  the  gold  and  set 
Of  the  sun  of  Venice,  we  two  had  met. 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.          55 

X. 

Where  the  lion  of  Venice,  with  brows  a-frown, 
With  toss'd  mane  tumbled,  and  teeth  in  air, 
Looks  out  in  his  watch  o'er  the  watery  town, 
With  a  paw  half  lifted,  with  his  claws  half  bare, 
By  the  blue  Adriatic,  in  the  edge  of  the  sea,  — 
I  saw  her.     I  knew  her,  but  she  knew  not  me. 
I  had  found  her  at  last !     Why,  I  had  sailed 
The  antipodes  through,  had  sought,  had  hailed 
All  flags,  had  climbed  where  the  storm-clouds 
curled,  [world. 

And  called  through  the  awful  arched  dome  of  the 

XI. 

I  saw  her  one  moment,  then  fell  back  abashed, 
And  filled  full  to  the  throat.  .  .  .  Then  I  turned 

me  once  more 

So  glad  to  the  sea,  while  the  level  sun  flashed 
On  the  far,  snowy  Alps.  .  .  .  Her  breast !  —  why, 

her  breast 

Was  white  as  twin  pillows  that  allure  you  to  rest ; 
Her  sloping  limbs  moved  like  to  melodies,  told 
As  she  rose  from  the  sea ;  and  she  threw  back 

the  gold 

Of  her  glorious  hair,  and  set  face  to  the  shore.  .  .  . 
I  knew  her  !  I  knew  her,  though  we  had  not  met 
Since  the  far  stars  sang  to  the  sun's  first  set. 


56  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

xn. 

How  long  I  had  sought  her !     I  had  hungered, 

nor  ate 

Of  any  sweet  fruits.     I  had  tasted  not  one^ 
Of  all  the  fair  glories  grown  under  the  sun. 
I  had  sought  only  her.     Yea,  I  knew  that  she 
Had  come  upon  earth,  and  stood  waiting  for  me 
Somewhere  by  my  way.    But  the  pathways  of  fate 
They  had  led  otherwhere  ;  the  round  world  round, 
The  far  North  seas  and  the  near  profound 
Had  failed  me  for  aye.    Now  I  stood  by  that  sea 
Where  ships  drave  by,  and  all  dreamily. 

xm. 

I  had  turned  from  the  lion  a  time,  and  when 
I  looked  tow'rd  the  tide  and  out  on  the  lea 
Of  the  town  where  the  warm  sea  tumbled  and 

teemed 

With  beauty,  I  saw  her  !     I  knew  her  then, 
The  tallest,  the  fairest  fair  daughter  of  men. 
Oh,  Venice  stood  full  in  her  glory.    She  gleamed 
In  the  splendor  of  sunset  and  sensuous  sea ; 
Yet  I  saw  but  my  bride,  my  all  to  me, 
While  the  doves  hurried  home  to  the  dome  of 

Saint  Mark,  [in  the  dark. 

And  the  brass  horses  plunged  their  high  manes 


THE  IDEAL  AND    THE  REAL.          57 

xrv. 

I  spake  not,  but  caught  at  my  breath  ;  I  did  raise 
My  face  to  fair  heaven,  to  give  God  praise 
That  at  last,  ere  the  ending  of  time,  we  two 
Had    touched   upon   earth  at   the  same    sweet 

place.  .  .  . 

Yea,  we  never  had  met  upon  earth  at  all ; 
Never,  since  ages  ere  Adam's  fall, 
Had  we  two  met  in  the  fulness  of  soul, 
Where  two  are  as    one,  but  had  wandered  on 

through 

The  spheres,  divided,  where  planets  roll 
Unnam'd  and  in  darkness  through  limitless  space. 
XV. 

Was  it  well  with  my  love  ?  Was  she  true  ? 
Was  she  brave 

With  virtue's  own  valor  ?  Was  she  waiting  for 
me? 

Oh,  how  fared  my  love  ?  Had  she  home  ?  Had 
she  bread? 

Had  she  known  but  the  touch  of  the  warm- 
tempered  wave  ? 

Was  she  born  upon  earth  with  a  crown  on  her 
head, 


58  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Or  born,  like  myself,  but  a  dreamer  instead  ? 
So  long  it  had  been  !    So  long  !   Why  the  sea  — 
That    wrinkled   and    surly,  old,  time-tempered 

slave  — 
Had  been  born,  had  his  revels,  grown  wrinkled 

and  hoar 
Since  I  last  saw  my  love  on  that  uttermost  shore. 

XVI. 

Oh;  how  fared  my  love  ?    Once  I  lifted  my  face, 
And  I  shook  back  my  hair  and  looked  out  on  the 

sea; 

I  pressed  my  hot  palms  as  I  stood  in  my  place, 
And  cried :  "  Oh,  I  come  like  a  king  to  your  side 
Though  all  hell  intervene  !"..."  Hist !    she 

may  be  a  bride, 
A  mother  at  peace,  with  sweet  babes  on  her 

knee  ! 

A  babe  at  her  breast  and  a  spouse  at  her  side  !  — 
Have  I  wandered  too  long,  and  has  Destiny 
Set  mortal  between  us  ?  "     I  buried  my  face 
In  my  hands,  and  I  moaned  as  I  stood  in  my 

place. 


THE  IDEAL  AND    THE  REAL.  59 

XVII. 

'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.  She  was  tall,  she 
was  fair  — 

Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 

'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.  She  was  fair,  she 
was  tall ; 

And  I  felt  she  was  true,  as  I  lifted  my  face 

And  saw  her  press  down  her  rich  robe  to  its  place, 

With  a  hand  white  and  small  as  a  babe's  with  a 
doll. 

And  her  feet !  —  why,  her  feet  in  the  white  shin 
ing  sand 

Were  so  small,  'twas  a  wonder  the  maiden  could 
stand. 

Then  she  pushed  back  her  hair  with  a  round 
hand  that  shone 

And  flashed  in  the  light  with  a  white  starry  stone. 

xvin. 

Then,  my  love  she  is  rich !  My  love  she  is  fair ! 
Is  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 
She  is  gorgeous  with  wealth  !  "  Thank  God,  she 

has  bread," 
I  said  to  myself.     Then  I  humbled  my  head 


60  SOWGS  OF  ITALY. 

In  gratitude.     Then  I  questioned  me  where 
Was  her  palace,  her  parents  ?    What  name  did 

she  bear? 

What  mortal  on  earth  came  nearest  her  heart  ? 
Who  touched  the  small  hand  till  it  thrilled  to  a 

smart  ? 
'Twas  her  year  to  be  young.     She  was  proud, 

she  was  fair  — 
Was  she  pure  as  the  snow  on  the  Alps  over  there  ? 

XIX. 

Beneath  her  blue  robe  her  round  bosom  rose 
In  sensuous  beauty !      She  was  white   as   the 

snows 

Of  the  Tyrolese  Alps.    Oh,  the  slope  of  her  arm  ! 
Oh,  the  rounded  limbs'    length !     The    breasts 

heaving  warm 

As  welcomes  of  love  !     The  lips  pushing  out ! 
The  proud  mouth  gathered  in  dimple  and  pout ! 
Then  the  dusky  depressions,  suggestions  of  night, 
They  did  make  her  pure  whiteness  but  appear 

the  more  white : 

Whiter  indeed  than  the  white  soul  of  man, 
Or  the  whitest  marbles  of  the  Vatican. 


THE  IDEAL  AND    THE  REAL.  61 

XX. 

She  loosened  her  robe  that  was  blue  like  the  sea, 
And  silken  and  soft  as  a  babe's  new  born. 
And  my  heart  it  leapt  light  as  the  sunlight  at 

morn 

At  the  sight  of  my  love  in  her  purity, 
As  she  rose  like  a  Naiad  half-robed  from  the  sea. 
As  careless,  as  calm  as  a  queen  can  be, 
She  loosed  and  let  fall  all  the  raiment  of  blue, 
As  she  drew  a  white  robe  in  a  melody 
Of  her  moving  white  limbs ;  and  between  the 

two, 
Like  a  rift  in  a  cloud^shone  her  fair  form  thro'. 

XXI. 

Now  she  turned,  reached  a  hand ;  then  a  tall 

gondolier 

Who  had  leaned  on  his  oar,  like  a  long  lifted  spear, 
Shot  sudden  and  swift  and  all  silently, 
And  drew  to  her  side  as  she  turned  from  the 

tide  .  .  . 

It  was  odd,  such  a  thing,  and  I  counted  it  queer 
That  a  princess  like  this,  whether  virgin  or  bride, 


62  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Should  abide  thus  apart,  and  should  bathe  in  that 

sea ; 

And  I  shook  back  my  hair,  and  so  unsatisfied  ! 
Then  I  fluttered  the  doves  that  were  perched 

close  about, 
As  I  strode  up  and  down  in  dismay  and  in  doubt. 

xxn. 
Then  she  stood  in  the  boat  on  the  borders  of 

night 

As  a  goddess  might  stand  on  that  far  wonder-land 
Of  eternal  sweet  life,  which  men  have  named 

Death. 

I  turned  to  the  sea,  and  I  caught  at  my  breath 
As  she   crouched  in   the  boat,  and  her  white 

baby  hand 

Held  her  vestment  of  purple  imperial  and  white. 
Then  the  gondola  shot,  —  swift,  sharp  from  the 

shore : 

There  was  never  the  sound  of  a  song  or  of  oar, 
But  the  doves  hurried  home  in  white  clouds  to 

Saint  Mark, 
Where  -the  lion  looms  high  o'er  the  sea  in  the 

dark. 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.  63 

XXIH. 
Then  I  cried :  "  Quick  !     Follow  her  !     Follow 

her!     Fast! 

Come,  thrice  double  fare  if  you  follow  her  true 
To  her  own  palace  door ! "     There  was  plashing 

of  oar 

And  rattle  of  rowlock.  ...  I  sat  leaning  low, 
Looking  far  in  the  dark,  looking  out  as  we  sped 
With  my  soul  all  alert,  bending  down,  leaning  low. 
But  only  the  oaths  of  the  men  as  we  pass'd, 
When  we  jostled  them  sharp  as  we  sudden  shot 

thro' 

The  watery  town.     Then  a  deep,  distant  roar  — 
The  rattle  of  rowlock,  the  rush  of  the  oar. 

xxrv. 

We  rock'd  and  we  rode :  then  the  oars  keeping  pace 
Gave  stroke  for  short  stroke  hi  the  swift  stormy 

chase. 

I  lifted  my  face,  and  lo  !  fitfully 
The  heavens  breathed  lightning :  it  did  lift  and  fall 
As  if  angels  were  parting  God's  curtains.     Then 

deep 
And  indolent-like  and  as  if  half-asleep, 


64  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

As  if  half  made  angry  to  move  at  all, 
The  thunder  moved.     It  confronted  me. 
It  stood  like  an  avalanche  poised  on  a  hill : 
I  saw  its  black  brows.     I  heard  it  stand  still. 

XXV. 

Then  we  flew  by  a  great  house  hurriedly, 
With  its  four  walls  washed  by  the  foamy  sea ; 
'Twas  the  place  where  Shelley  was  wont  to  be. 
I  heard  in  the  heavens  the  howlings  of  men  ; 
High  up  in  the  dark  I  did  hear  men  shout ; 
And  I  lifted  my  eyes  as  the  lightnings  fell, 
And  I  saw  hands  thrust  through  the  bars ;  and  then 
I  knew  'twas  the  madhouse  howling  at  me : 
So  doleful,  so  lone !     Like  a  land  cast  out, 
And  awful  as  Lucifer  throned  in  hell. 

XXVI. 

Then  an    oath.     Then  a  prayer.     Then  a  gust 

that  made  rents 

Thro'  the  yellow-sailed  fishers.     Then  suddenly 
Came  sharp-forked  fire  !     Then  far  thunder  fell 
Like  the  great  first  gun  !  Ah,  then  there  was  rout 
Of  ships  like  the  breaking  of  regiments, 
And  shouts  as  if  hurled  from  an  upper  hell. 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.  05 

Then  tempest !     It  lifted,  it  spun  us  about, 
Then  shot  us  ahead  through  the  hills  of  the  sea 
As  if  a  great  arrow  shot  shoreward  in  wars  — 
Then  heaven  split  open  till  we  saw  the  blown 
stars. 

XXVII.        i 
On  !  On  !  through  the  foam,  through  the  storm, 

through  the  town. 

She  was  gone  !     She  was  lost  in  the  wilderness 
Of  palaces  lifting  their  marbles  of  snow. 
I  stood  in  my  gondola.     Up  and  all  down 
I  pushed  through  the  surge  of  the  salt-flood  street 
Above  me,  below.  .  .  -.  'Twas  only  the  beat 
Of  the  sea's  sad  heart.  .  .  .  Then  I  heard  below 
The  water-rat  building,  and  nothing  but  that ; 
Not  even  the  sea-bird  screaming  distress, 
As  she  lost  her  way  in  that  wilderness. 

xxvm. 

I  listened  all  night.     I  caught  at  each  sound  ; 
I  clutched  and  I  caught  as  a  man  that  drown'd  — 
Only  the  sullen,  low  growl  of  the  sea 
Far  out  the  flood-street  at  the  edge  of  the  ships. 
Only  the  billow  slow  licking  his  lips, 


66  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Like  a  dog  that  lay  crouching  there  watching  for 

me, 

Growling  and  showing  white  teeth  all  the  night, 
Reaching  his  neck  and  as  ready  to  bite. 
Only  the  waves  with  their  salt-flood  tears 
Fawning  white  stones  of  a  thousand  years. 

XXIX. 

Only  the  birds  in  the  loftiness 

Of  column  and  dome  and  of  glittering  spire 

That  thrust  to  heaven  and  held  the  fire 

Of  the  thunder  still ;  the  bird's  distress 

As  he  struck  his  wings  in  that  wilderness, 

On  marbles  that  speak  and  thrill  and  inspire.  — 

The  night  below  and  the  night  above ; 

The  water-rat  building,  the  startled  white  dove ; 

The  wide-winged,  dolorous  sea-bird's  call, 

The  water-rat  building,  —  but  that  was  all. 

XXX. 

Silent  and  slowly,  and  up  and  down, 

I  rowed  and  I  rowed  me  for  many  an  hour, 

By  beetling  palace  and  toppling  tower, 

In  the  dark  and  the  deep  of  the  watery  town. 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.  67 

Only  the  water-rat  building  by  stealth, 
Only  the  sea-bird  astray  in  his  flight 
As  he  struck  his  wings  in  the  clouds  of  night, 
On  spires  that  sprang  from  old  Adria's  wealth, 
On  marbles  that  move  with  their  eloquence, 
On  statues  so  sweeter  than  utterance. 

XXXI. 

Lo  !  pushing  the  darkness  from  pillar  to  post, 
The  morning  came  silent  and  gray  like  a  ghost 
Slow  up  the  canal.     I  leaned  from  the  prow 
And  listened.     Not  even  the  bird  in  distress 
Screaming  above  through  the  wilderness ; 
Not  even  the  stealthy  old  water-rat  now. 
Only  the  bell  in  the  fisherman's  tower, 
Slow  tolling  at  sea  and  telling  the  hour 
To  kneel  to  their  sweet  Santa  Barbara 
For  tawny  fishers  at  sea  and  pray. 


68  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


THE  IDEAL  AND  THE  REAL. 

PART  II. 

I. 

T  TIGH  over  my  head,  carved  cornice,  quaint 

spire ; 
And  ancient-built  palaces  knocked  their  gray 

brows 

Together  and  frowned.  The  slow-creeping  scows 
Scraped  the  wall  on  each  side.  High  over,  the 

fire 

Of  sudden-born  morning  came  flaming  in  bars : 
While  up  through  my  chasm  I  could  count  the 

stars.  [death 

My  God  !  Such  damp  ruin  !  The  dank  smell  of 
Came  up  the  canal :  I  could  scarce  take  my  breath ! 
'Twas  the  fit  place  for  pirates,  for  women  who  keep 
Contagion  of  body  and  soul  where  they  sleep. 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.  69 

n. 

Great  heaven  !    A  white  hand  did  beckon  to  me 
From  an  old  mouldy  door,  and  almost  in  my  reach. 
I  sprang  to  the  sill  as  one  wrecked  to  a  beach ; 
I  sprang  with  wide  arms :  it  was  she !  it  was 

she !  .  .  . 

In  such  a  damn'd  place !  And  what  was  her  trade  ? 
To  think  I  had  followed,  so  faithful,  so  far, 
From  eternity's  brink,  from  star  to  white  star, 
To  find  her,  to  find  her,  nor  wife  nor  sweet  maid  ! 
To  find  her  a  shameless  poor  creature  of  shame, 
A  nameless  lost  body,  men  hardly  dare  name. 

o 

in. 

All  alone  in  her  pride,  on  that  damp  dismal  floor 
She  stood  to  entice  me.     I  bowed  me  before 
All-conquering  beauty.     I  called  her  my  queen. 
I  told  her  my  love  as  I  would  have  told 
My  love  had  I  found  her  as  pure  as  gold. 
I  reached  her  my  hand,  as  fearless  a  man 
As  man  fronting  cannon.     I  cried :  "  Come  forth 
To  the  sun !     There  are  lands  to  the  south,  to 

the  north, 
Anywhere  where  you  will.      Dash  the  shame 

from  your  brow ; 
Come  with  me,  for  ever ;  and  come  with  me  now ! " 


70  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

IV. 

Why,  I  had  turned  pirate  for  her !  I  had  seen 
Tall  ships  burned  from  seas,  like  to  stubble  from 

field.  [yield, 

I  would  not  now  forsake  her.  Why  should  I  now 
When  she  needed  me  most  ?  Had  I  found  her  a 

queen, 
And  beloved  by  the  world,  —  why,  what  had  I 

done? 
I  had  wooed  her,  and  wooed  her,  and  wooed  till  I 

won ! 

Then,  if  I  had  loved  her  with  gold  and  fair  fame, 
Would  not  I  now  love  her,  and  love  her  the  same  ? 
My  soul  hath  a  pride.  I  would  tear  out  my  heart 
And  feed  it  to  dogs,  could  it  play  such  a  part. 

v. 

I  told  her  all  things.     Her  brow  took  a  frown ; 
Her  grand  Titan  beauty,  so  tall,  so  serene, 
The  one  perfect  woman,  mine  own  idol  queen  I 
Her  proud  swelling  bosom  it  broke  up  and  down : 
Then  she  spake,  and  she  shook  in  her  soul  as  she 

said, 
With  her  small  hands  upheld  to  her  bent,  aching 

head : 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.  71 

"  Go  back  to  the  world  !  go  back  and  alone, 
Thou    strange,    stormy    soul,   intense   as   mine 

own ! " 

I  said  :  "  I  will  wait !     I  will  wait  in  the  pass 
Of  death,  until  Time  he  shall  break  his  glass  ! 

VI. 

"Don't  you  know  me,  my  bride  of  the  white 
worlds  before  ? 

Why,  don't  you  remember  the  white  milky-way 

Of  stars,  that  we  traversed  a  life-time  through  ? 

We  were  counting  the  colors,  we  were  naming 
the  seas 

Of  the  vaster  ones.     You  remember  the  trees 

That  swayed  in  the  cloudy  white  heavens,  and 
bore 

Bright  crystals  of  sweets,  and  the  sweet  manna- 
dew? 

Why,  you  smile  as  you  weep,  and  you  lift  up 
your  brow, 

And  your  bright  eyes  speak,  and  you  know  me 
now  ! 

You  know  me  as  if  'twere  but  yesterday ! 


72  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

vn. 

"Nowhere  in  the  lands  where  the  gods  did  love, 
Where  the  white  Europa  was  won,  —  she  rode 
Her  milk-white  bull  through  these  same  warm 

seas,  — 

Yea,  here  in  the  lands  where  the  Hercules, 
With  the  lion's  heart  and  the  heart  of  the  dove, 
Did  walk  in  his  naked  great  strength,  and  strode 
In  the  sensuous  air  with  his  lion's  skin 
Flapping  and  fretting  his  knotted  thews  ; 
Where  Theseus  did  wander,  and  Jason  cruise,  — 
Lo !  here  let  the  life  of  all  lives  begin. 

vm. 

"  Lo  !  here  where  the  Orient  balms  blow  in, 
Where  heaven  is  kindest,  where  all  God's  blue 
Seems  a  great  gate  opened  to  welcome  you,  — 
Come,  rise  and  go  forth,  and  forget  your  sin  !  " 
Then  rose  her  great  heart,  so  grander  far 
Than  I  had  believed  on  that  outermost  star  ; 
And  she  put  by  her  tears,  and  calmly  she  said, 
With  hands  held  low  and  with  bended  head : 
"  Go  thou  through  the  doors  of  death,  and  wait 
For  me  on  the  innermost  side  of  the  gate. 


THE  IDEAL  AND   THE  REAL.  73 

IX. 

"  It  is  breaking  my  heart ;  but,  'tis  best,"  she  said. 
"  Thank  God  that  this  life  is  but  a  day's  span, 
But  a  wayside  inn  for  weary,  worn  man  — 
A  night  and  a  day ;  and,  to-morrow,  the  spell 
Of  darkness  is  broken.     Now,  darling,  farewell ! 
Nay,  touch  not  the  hem  of  my  robe  !  —  it  is  red 
With  sins  that  your  own  sex  heaped  on  my  head  ! 
But  go,  love,  go !     Yet  remember  this  plan, 
That  whoever  dies  first  is  to  sit  down  and  wait 
Inside  death's  door,  and  watch  at  the  gate." 

x. 

Then  I  grew  noble.     Yea,  I  grew  so  tall 

I  could  almost  reach  to  the  golden  hair 

Of  that  poor,  pitiful  Cyprian  there. 

I  did  let  my  mantle  of  self-love  fall, 

And  I  stood  all  naked,  so  weak,  so  small, 

I  wondered  that  I  could  ever  now  dare 

Lift  up  my  prayer  to  Heaven  at  all.  .  .  . 

And  I  accepted  her  lesson.     I  said, 

With  hands  clasped  down  and  declining  head, 

"  I  will  go,  I  will  wait  by  the  gates  of  the  dead.  - 


74  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

XI. 

"  And  you,  O  woman !  go  patient"  on  through 
The  course  that  man  hath  compelled  you  to. 
Then  back  to  your  mother,  the  earth,  my  love  ; 
Go,  press  to  her  bosom  your  beautiful  brow, 
Till  it  blends  with  your  clay,  and  so  purifies 
Your  flesh  of  the  stains  that  so  sully  it  now : 
Lie  down  in  the  loam,  the  populous  loam, 
Yea,  sleep  for  the  eons  with  death ;  then  rise 
As  white,  as  light  as  the  wings  of  a  dove,  — 
And  so  made  holy,  oh  love,  come  home ! 

xn. 

"  Farewell  for  all  time  !  And  now,"  I  said, 
"  What  thing  upon  earth  have  I  left  to  do  ? 
Why,  I  shall  go  down  through  the  gates  of  the 

dead, 

And  wait  for  your  coming  your  long  life  thro'  — 
As  you  have  commanded,  lo  !  I  shall  obey. 
I  shall  sit,  I  shall  wait  for  you,  love,  alway ; 
Shall  wait  by  the  side  of  the  gate  for  you, 
Waiting,  and  counting  the  days  as  I  wait ; 
Shall  wait  as  that  beggar  that  sat  by  the  gate 
Of  Jerusalem,  waiting  the  Judgment  Day." 

VENICE,  1874. 


IL   CAPUCIN.  75 


IL   CAPUCIN. 

i. 
/^\NLY  a  basket  for  fruits  or  bread 

And  the  bits  you  divide  with  your  dog, 

which  you 
Had  left  from  your  dinner.     The  round  year 

through 

He  never  once  smiles.     He  bends  his  head 
To  the  scorn  of  men.     He  gives  the  road 
To  the  grave  ass  groaning  beneath  his  load. 
He  is  ever  alone.     Lo  !  never  a  hand 
Is  laid  in  his  hand  through  the  whole  wide  land, 
Save  when  a  man  dies,  and  he  shrives  him  home. 
And  that  is  the  Capucin  monk  of  Rome. 

n. 

He  coughs,  he  is  humped,  and  he  hobbles  about 
In  sandals  of  wood.     Then  a  hempen  cord 
Girdles  his  loathsome  gown.     Abhorred ! 
Ay  !  lonely,  indeed,  as  a  leper  cast  out. 
One  gown  in  three  years !  and  —  bah !  how  he 
smells  ! 


76  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

0 

He  slept  last  night  in  his  coffin  of  stone, 
This  monk  that  coughs,  this  skin  and  bone, 
This  living  corpse  from  the  damp  cold  cells. 
Yet,  up  in  the  morn,  come  storm  or  shine, 
And  forth  at  four  to  wail  at  the  shrine. 

m. 

Go  ye  where  the  Pincian,  half-levelled  down, 
The  sixth  of  the  seven  rent  hills  of  Rome, 
Slopes  slow  to  the  south.     These  men  in  brown 
Have  a  monkery  there,  quaint,  builded  of  stone  ; 
And,  living  or  dead,  'tis  the  brown  men's  home, 
These  dead  brown  monks  that  are  living  in  Rome  ! 

IV. 

You  will  hear  wood  sandals  on  the  sounding  floor, 
A  cough,  then  the  lift  of  a  latch,  then  the  door 
Groans  open,  and  horror !     Four  walls  of  stone 
Are  gorgeous  with  flowers  and  frescos  of  bone  ! 
There  are  bones  in  the  corners  and  bones  on  the 

wall ; 

And  he  barks  like  a  dog  that  watches  his  bone, 
This  monk  in  brown  from  his  bed  of  stone  — 
Yea,  barks,  and  he  coughs,  and  that  is  all. 


IL  CAPUCIN.  77 

V. 

At  last  he  will  cough  as  if  up  from  his  cell ; 
Will  strut  with  considerable  pride  about, 
Will  lead  through  his  flowers  of  bone,  and  smell 
Their  odors  ;  then  talk,  as  he  points  them  out, 
Of  the  virtues  and  deeds  of  the  gents  who  wore 
The  respective  bones  but  the  year  before. 

Then  he  thaws  at  last,  ere  the  bones  are  through, 
And  talks  and  talks  as  he  turns  them  about 
And  stirs  up  a  most  uncomfortable  smell  ; 
Yea,  talks  of  his  brown  dead  brothers,  till  you 
Wish  them,  as  they  are  no  doubt,  in  —  well, 
A  very  deep  well.  .  .  .  And  that  may  be  why, 
As  he  shows  you  the  door  and  bows  good-by, 
That  he  bows  so  low  for  a  franc  or  two, 
To  shrive  their  souls  and  to  get  them  out  — 
These  bony  brown  men  who  have  their  home, 
Dead  or  alive,  in  their  cells  in  Rome. 

VI. 

What  good  does  he  do  in  the  world  ?   Ah !  well, 
Now  that  is  a  puzzler.  .  .  .  But,  listen !      He 

prays. 
His  life  is  the  fast  of  the  forty  days. 


78  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

And  then,  when  the  thief  and  the  beggar  fell 
And  had  died  in  the  way;  when  the  plague 

came  down,  — 

Christ !  who  was  it  cried  to  these  men  in  brown 
When  other  men  fled?     And  what  man   was 

seen 
Stand  firm  to  the  death  but  the  Capucin  ? 

HOME,  1873. 


FAITH.  79 


FAITH. 


days  and  forty  nights, 
Blown  about  the  broken  waters, 
Noah,  and  his  sons  and  daughters ; 
Forty  days  they  beat  and  blow  — 
Forty  days  of  faith,  and  lo  ! 

The  olive  leaf,  the  lifted  heights, 
•     The  rest  at  last,  the  calm  delights. 

n. 

Forty  years  of  sun  and  sand, 
Serpents,  beasts,  and  wilderness, 
Desolation  and  distress, 
War  and  famine,  wail  and  woe  — 
Forty  years  of  faith,  and  lo  ! 
The  mighty  Moses  lifts  a  hand 
And  shows  at  last  the  Promised  Land. 


80  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

JR. 

Forty  days  to  fast  and  pray, 
The  patient  Christ  outworn  defied 
The  angry  tempter  at  his  side. 
Forty  days  or  forty  years 
Of  patient  sacrifice  and  tears  — 
Lo  !  what  are  all  of  these  the  day 
That  Time  has  nothing  more  to  say  ? 

IV. 

Lift  your  horns,  exult  and  blow, 
Believe  and  labor.  Tree  and  vine 
Must  flourish,  ere  the  fruit  and  wine 

Reward  your  planting.     Round  and  round 

* 
The  rocky  walls,  with  faith  profound, 

The  trumpets  blew ;  blew  loud,  and  lo  ! 
The  tumbled  walls  of  Jericho. 

MILAN,  1873. 


TO  FLORENCE.  81 


TO    FLORENCE. 

i. 

TF  all  God's  world  a  garden  were, 
And  women  were  but  flowers  ; 
If  men  were  bees  that  busied  there 
Through  all  the  summer  hours,  — 
Oh !  I  would  hum  God's  garden  through, 
For  honey,  till  I  came  to  you. 

n. 

Then  I  should  hive  within  your  hair, 
Its  sun  and  gold  together ; 
And  I  should  bide  in  glory  there, 
Through  all  the  changeful  weather. 
Oh !  I  should  sip  but  one,  this  one 
Sweet  flower  underneath  the  sun. 
6 


82  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


in. 

Oh !  I  would  be  a  king,  and  coin 
Your  golden  hair  for  money  ; 
And  I  would  only  have  to  seek 
Your  lips  for  hoards  of  honey. 
Oh !  I  would  be  the  richest  king 
That  ever  wore  a  signet-ring. 

FLORENCE,  1874. 


FOR  PAULINE.  83 


FOR    PAULINE. 

i. 

T    OVE  me,  love,  but  breathe  <it  low, 

Soft  as  summer  weather ; 
If  you  love  me,  tell  me  so, 

As  we  sit  together, 
Sweet  and  still  as  roses  blow : 
Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low. 

n. 

Tell  me  only  with  your  eyes, 

Words  are  cheap  as  water, 
If  you  love  me,  looks  and  sighs 

Tell  my  mother's  daughter 
More  than  all  the  world  may  know : 
Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low. 


84  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


m. 

Words  for  others,  storm  and  snow, 
Wind  and  changeful  weather  — 

Let  the  shallow  waters  flow 
Foaming  on  together ; 

But  love  is  still  and  deep,  and  oh  ! 

Love  me,  love,  but  breathe  it  low. 

PIEVE  DT  CADORA,  1873. 


TO   CARRIE  A.   S.  85 


TO    CARRIE   A.   S. 

i. 

/"THHE  sea-dove  some  twin  shadow  has, 
The  lark  has  loves  in  seas  of  grass, 
The  wild  beast  trumpets  back  his  vow, 
The  squirrel  laughs  along  his  bough  ; 
But  I,  I  am  as  lone,  alas  ! 
As  yon  white  moon  when  white  clouds  pass  ! 
As  lonely  and  unloved,  alas  ! 
As  clouds  that  weep  and  droop  and  pass. 

n. 

Oh,  maiden  !  singing  over  sweet 
At  cottage  door,  in  field  of  corn, 
Where  woodbines  twine  for  thy  retreat  — 
Sing  sweet  through  all  thy  summer  morn. 
For  love  is  landing  at  thy  feet, 
On  isle  of  vine,  in  seas  of  corn. 
But  I,  I  am  unloved  and  lorn, 
As  winter  winds  of  winter  morn. 


86  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

III. 

The  ships,  black-bellied,  climb  the  sea, 
The  seamen  seek  their  loves  on  -land, 
And  love  and  lover,  hand  in  hand, 
Go  singing,  glad  as  glad  can  be. 
But  never  more  shall  love  seek  me 
By  breezy  sea  or  broken  land. 

By  broken  wild  or  willow  tree, 
Nay,  never  more  shall  love  seek  me. 

NAPLES,  1872. 


THE   UNKNOWN  TONGUE.  87 


THE  UNKNOWN  TONGUE. 

i. 
'THHAT  baby,  I  knew  her  in  days  of  old. 

You  doubt  that  I  lived  in  a  land  made  fair 
With  many  soft  moons,  and  was  mated  there  ? 
Now  mark  you  !  I  saw  but  to-day  on  the  street 
A  sweet  girl-baby,  whose  delicate  feet 
As  yet  upon  earth  took  but  uncertain  hold ; 
Yet  she  carried  a  doll,  and  she  toddled  alone, 
And  she  talked  to  that  doll  in  a  tongue  her  own. 
The  sweet  little  stranger !  why,  her  face  still  bore 
The  look  of  the  people  from  her  far  star-shore. 

n. 

4 

Ah !  you  doubt  me  still  ?     Then  listen :     While 

you 

Have  looked  to  the  earth  for  gold,  why  I  — 
I  have  looked  to  the  steeps  of  the  starry  sky. 
And  which,  indeed,  had  the  fairer  view 


88  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Of  the  infinite  things,  the  dreamer  or  you  ?  .  .   . 
How  blind  be  men  when  they  will  not  see  ! 
If  men  must  look  in  the  dust,  or  look, 
At  best,  with  the  eyes  bound  down  to  a  book, 
Why,  who  shall  deny  that  it  comes  to  me 
To  sail  white  ship  through  the  ether  sea  ? 

m. 

Yea,  I  am  a  dreamer.     Yet  while  you  dream, 
Then  I  am  awake.     When  a  child,  back  through 
The  gates  of  the  past  I  peered,  and  I  knew 
The  land  I  had  lived  in.    I  saw  a  broad  stream ; 
Saw  rainbows  that  compassed  a  world  in  their 

reach ; 

I  saw  my  beloved  go  down  on  the  beach ; 
Saw  her  lean  to  this  earth,  saw  her  looking  forme 
As  shipmen  look  from  their  ships  at  sea.  .  .  . 
The    sweet   girl-baby !      Why,  that    unknown 

tongue 
Is  the  tongue  she  has  talked  since  the  stars  were 

young. 

NAPLES,  1873. 


UNICA-^ETERNA.  89 


UNICA-^TERNA. 

i. 
T  DREAMED,  O  Queen,  of  thee  last  night ; 

I  can  but  dream  of  thee  to-day. 
But  dream  ?     Oh !  I  could  kneel  and  pray 
To  one,  who,  like  a  tender  light, 
Leads  ever  on  my  lonesome  way, 
And  will  not  pass  —  yet  will  not  stay. 

ii. 

I  dreamed,  O  Princess,  regal  Queen, 
That  I  had  followed  thee  afar, 
And  faithful,  as  my  polar  star ; 
But  then,  as  now,  I  had  not  seen 
The  day  I  dared  draw  near  to  thee, 
But  followed,  worshipped,  silently. 

in. 

I  dreamed  we  roamed  in  elden  land ; 
I  saw  you  walk  in  splendid  state, 
With  lifted  head  and  heart  elate, 
And  lilies  in  your  white  right  hand, 


90  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Beneath  the  proud  Saint  Peter's  dome 
That,  silent,  lords  almighty  Rome. 

V. 

A  diamond  star  was  in  your  hair, 
Your  garments  were  of  gold  and  snow ; 
,And  men  did  turn  and  marvel  so, 
And  men  did  say,  How  matchless  fair  I 
And  all  men  followed  as  you  pass'd ; 
But  I  came  silent,  lone,  and  last. 

v. 

And  holy  men  in  sable  gown, 

And  girt  with  cord,  and  sandal  shod, 

Did  look  to  thee,  and  then  to  God.       [down ; 

They   crossed  themselves,   with   heads   held 

They  .chid  themselves,  in  fear  that  they 

Should,  seeing  thee,  forget  to  pray. 

VI. 

Men  pass'd,  men  spake  in  wooing  word ; 
Men  pass'd,  ten  thousand  in  a  line. 
You  stood  before  the  sacred  shrine, 
You  stood  as  if  you  had  not  heard. 
And  then  you  turned  in  calm  command, 
And  laid  two  lilies  in  my  hand. 


UNICA-^ETERNA.  91 

vn. 

O  Lady,  if  by  sea  or  laud 
You  yet  might  weary  of  all  men, 
And  turn  unto  your  singer  then, 
And  lay  one  lily  in  his  hand,  — 
Lo !  I  would  follow  true  and  far 
As  seamen  track  the  polar  star. 

vni. 

My  soul  is  young,  my  heart  is  strong ; 
O  Lady,  reach  a  hand  to-day, 
And  thou  shalt  walk  the  milky-way, 
For  I  will  give  thy  name  to  song. 
Lo  !  I  am  of  the  kings  of  thought, 
And  thou  shalt  live  when  kings  are  not. 

IX. 

Oh,  reach  a  hand,  your  hand  in  mine ! 

Why,  I  could  sing  as  never  man 

Has  sung  since  prophecy  began  ! 

And  thou  should'st  be  both  song  and  shrine. . . . 

And  yet  I  falter  in  thy  sight, 

And  dare  not  breathe  the  thought  I  write. 


92  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


SIROCCO. 


r  I  ^HERE  were  black  clouds  crossing  the  Alps, 

and  they 

Rolled  straight  upon  Venice.     Then  far  away, 
As  if  catching  new  breath  and  gathering  strength 
In  the  jiEgean  hills,  on  the  pall  of  the  day, 
Stood  the  terrible  Thunder.    Then  hip  and  thigh 
He  smote  all  heaven,  and  the  lightning  leapt 
Like  red  swords  thrust  through  the  night  full 

length  — 
Swords  thrust  through  the  black  heart  of  night 

as  he  slept ! 

Then  ribbon  and  skein  kept  threading  the  sky ; 
Then,  ere  you  scarcely  had  time  to  think, 
The  sea  lay  darkling  and  black  as  ink. 


SIROCCO.  93 

II. 

Then  many  a  sail,  tri-colored,  and  cross'd 
By  the  lone  sad  cross  of  Calvary, 
Drove  by  us  and  dwindled  to  blinding  specks ; 
Drove  straight  in  the  grinning  white  teeth  of  the 

sea, 

Like  lonesome  spirits,  forlorn  and  lost. 
Then  a  ship  with  my  stars  of  the  West !  and  then 
There  were  golden  crescents,  tall  turbaned  men 
All  silent  and  devil-like  keeping  the  decks ; 
Then  hearse-like  gondolas  hurried  about, 
As  if  sniffing  the  storm  with  their  lifted  snout. 

VENICE,  1874. 


94  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


PACE   IMPLORA. 

I. 

T3ETTER  it  were  to  abide  by  the  sea, 

Loving  somebody,  and  satisfied  ; 
Better  it  were  to  grow  babes  on  the  knee, 
To  anchor  you  down  for  all  your  days, 
Than  to  wander  and  wander  in  all  these  ways, 
Land-forgotten  and  love-denied. 
Yea,  better  to  live  as  the  mountaineers  live,   . 
Than  entreat  of  the  gods  what  they  will  not  give. 

H. 

Better  sit  still  where  born,  I  say, 
Wed  one  sweet  woman  and  love  her  well, 
Love  and  be  loved  in  the  old  East  way, 
Drink  sweet  waters,  and  dream  in  a  spell, 
Than  to  wander  in  search  of  the  Blessed  Isles, 
And  to  sail  the  thousands  of  watery  miles 
In  the  search  of  love,  and  find  you  at  last 
On  the  edge  of  the  world,  and  a  curs'd  outcast. 


PACE  IMPLORA.  95 

m. 

Yea,  laugh  with  your  neighbors,  live  in  their  way 
Be  it  never  so  humble.     The  humbler  the  home, 
The  braver,  indeed,  to  brunt  the  fray. 
Share  their  delights  and  divide  your  tears, 
Love  and  be  loved  for  the  full  round  years, 
As  men  once  loved  in  the  young  world's  pride, 
Ere  men  knew  madness  and  came  to  roam,  — 
When  they  lived  where  their  fathers  had  lived 

and  died, 
Lived  and  so  loved.for  a  thousand  years. 

IV. 

Better  it  were  for  the  world,  I  say, 
Better  indeed  for  a  man's  own  good, 
That  he  should  sit  -still  where  he  was  born, 
Be  it  land  of  sand,  or  of  oil  and  corn, 
White  sea-border  or  great  black  wood, 
Bleak  white  winter  or  bland  sweet  May,  — 
Than  to  wander  the  world,  as  I  have  done, 
For  the  one  dear  woman  that  is  under  the  sun. 


96  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

V. 

Better  abide,  though  the  skies  be  dun, 
And  the  rivers  espoused  of  the  ice  and  snow ; 
Better  abide,  though  the  thistles  grow, 
And  the  city  of  smoke  be  obscured  of  the  sun, 
Than  to  seek  red  poppies  and  the  sweet  dream 
land  — 

Than  to  wander  the  world  as  I  to-day, 
Breaking  the  heart  into  bits  like  clay, 
And  leaving  it  scattered  upon  every  hand. 

VENICE,  1874. 


ALONE.  97 


ALONE. 


T  AM  as  lone  as  lost  winds  on  the  height  ; 

As  lone  as  yonder  leaning  moon  at  night, 
That  climbs,  like  some  sad  noiseless-footed  mm, 
Far  up  against  the  steep  and  starry  height, 
As  if  on  holy  mission.     Yea,  as  one 
That  knows  no  ark,  or  isle,  or  resting-place, 
Or  chronicle  of  time,  or  wheeling  sun, 
I  drive  for  ever  on  through  endless  space. 
Like  some  lone  bird  in  everlasting  flight, 
My  lonesome  soul  sails  on  through  lonesome  seas 

of  night. 

H. 

Alone  in  sounding  hollows  of  the  sea  ; 
Alone  on  lifted,  heaving  hills  of  foam  : 
To  never  rest  ;  to  ever  rise  and  roam 
Where  never  kind  or  kindred  soul  may  be  ; 

7 


98  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

To  roam  where  ships  of  commerce  never  ride, 
Sail  on,  and  so  forget  the  rest  of  shore  ; 
To  hear  the  waves  complain,  as  if  they  died ; 
To  see  the  vast  waves  heave  for  evermore  ; 
To  know  that  no  ships  cross  or  measure  these, 
My  shoreless,  chartless,  strange,  and  most  un 
common  seas. 

CADORA,  1873. 


IMP  LOR  A.  99 


IMPLORA. 

i. 
/^\H!  who  art  thou,  veiled  shape?    My  soul 

cries  out 

Through  mist  and  storm.     Lean  thou  to  me  ! 
Come  nearer,  thou,  that  I  may  feel  and  see 
Thy  wounded  side,  and  so  forget  all  doubt! 
How  terrible  the  night !     I  kneel  to  thee ; 
I  clasp  thy  knees ;  would  clamber  to  thy  hair. 
As  one  shipwrecked  on  some  broad,  broken  sea, 
Through  intermingled  oaths  and  awful  shout, 
Uplifts  white  hands  and  prays  in  his  despair,  — 
So  now  my  curses  break  into  a  prayer. 

BELLAGIO,  1874. 


100  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


THE    QUEST    OF    LOVE. 

i. 

"D  EHOLD !    my  quest  has  brought  but  rue 
and  rime ! 

I  loved  the  blushing,  bounding,  singing  Spring  : 

She  scarce  would  pause  a  day  to  hear  me  sing. 

I  loved  her  sister,  gorgeous,   golden   Summer 
time  : 

She  gathered  close  her  robes  and  rustled  past, 

Through  yellow  fields  of  corn.     She  scorned  to 
cast 

One  tender  look  of  love  or  hope  behind ; 

But,  sighing,  died  upon  the  Autumn  wind. 

Oh,  then  I  loved  the  vast,  the  lonesome  Night : 

She,  too,  passed  on  in  scorn,  and  perished  from 
my  sight. 

n. 

Oh !  lives  there  nought  on  all  the  girdled  world, 

That  may  survive  one  day  its  sorry  birth? 

The  very  Moon  grows  thin  and  hunger-curled ; 

The  ardent  Sun  forgets  his  love  of  Earth, 


THE  QUEST  OF  LOVE.  101 

And  turns,  dark-browed,  and  draws  his  reached 

arms  back, 
The  while  she,  mourning,  moves   on,  clad  in 

black. 

But  list !     I  once  did  hear  the  good  priest  tell 
That  hell  is  everlasting.     Oh,  my  friend, 
To  know  that  there  is  aught  that  may  not  end ! 
Now  let  us  kneel  and  give  God  thanks  that  hell 

is  hell. 

LAKE  COMO,  August,  1873. 


102  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


O  LOVE! 

I. 

r  I  "'HE  long  days  through  I  sit  and  sigh,  alas ! 
For  love !     Lone,  beggar-like,  beside  the 

way 

I  sit  forlorn  in  lanes  where  Day  must  pass. 
I  stretch  imploring  palms  toward  the  Day, 
And  cry,  "  O  Day !  but  give  me  love !     I  die 
For  love !     I  let  all  other  gifts  go  by. 
Yea,  bring  me  but  one  love  that  runs  to  waste, 
One  love  that  men  pass  by  in  heedless  haste, 
And  I  will  kiss  thy  feet  and  ask  no  more 
From  all  To-morrow's  rich,  mysterious  store." 

II. 

The  drear  days  mock  me  in  my  mute  request ; 
The  dark  years  roll  like  breakers  on  the  shore, 
And  die  in  futile  thunder.     As  in  jest, 
They  bring  bright,  empty  shells,  — bring  nothing 
more. 


O  LOVE!  103 

Oh,  say  !  is  sweet  Love  dead  and  hid  from  all 
Who  would  disdain  a  colder  touch  than  his  ? 
Then  show  me  where  Love  lies.     Put  back  the 

pall. 

Lo  !  I  will  fall  upon  his  face  and  kiss 
Sweet  Love  to  life  again ;  or  I  will  lie, 
Lamenting,  prone  beside  his  dust,  and  die. 

ANCONA,  1874. 


104  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


AFTER    THE    BOAR    HUNT. 

i. 
"T^WERE  better  blow  trumpets  'gainst  love, 

keep  away 

That  traitorous  urchin  with  fire  or  shower, 
Or  fair  or  foul  means  you  may  have  in  your 

power, 
Than  have  him  come  near  you  for  one  little 

hour. 

Take  physic,  consult  with  your  doctor,  as  you 
Would  fight  a  contagion ;  carry  all  through 
The  populous  day  some  drug  that  smells  loud, 
As  you  pass  on  your  way,  or  make  way  through 

the  crowd. 

Talk  war,  or  carouse :  only  keep  off  the  day 
Of  his  coming,  with  every  true  means  in  your 

way. 


AFTER   THE  BOAR-HUNT.  105 

n. 

Blow  smoke  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  and  laugh 
With  the  broad-chested  men,  as  you  loaf  at  your 

inn, 
As  you  crowd  to  your  inn  from  your  saddles, 

and  quaff 
The  red  wine  from  a  horn ;  while  your  dogs  at 

your  feet, 
Your  slim  spotted  dogs,  like  the  fawn,  and  as 

fleet, 

Crouch  patiently  by  and  look  up  at  your  face, 
As  they  wait  for  the  call  of  the  horn  to  the 

chase : 

For  you  shall  not  suffer,  and  you  shall  not  sin, 
Until  peace  goes  out  and  till  love  comes  in. 

m. 

Love  horses  and  hounds,  meet  many  good  men  — 
Yea,  men  are  most  proper,  and  keep  you  from 

care. 
There  is  strength  in  a  horse.     There  is  pride  in 

his  will : 
It  is  sweet  to  look  back  as  you  climb  the  steep  hill. 


106  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

There  is  room.     You  have  movement  of  limb  ; 

you  have  air, 
Have  the  smell  of  the  wood,  of  the  grasses :  and 

then 
What    comfort    to   rest,  as  you  lie  thrown  at 

length 
All   night   and   alone,  with  your   fists   full   of 

strength ! 

TURIN,  1874. 


DOLCE  FAR  NIENTE.  107 


DOLCE    FAR    NIENTE. 

i. 

A  H,  how  one  wanders !     Yet  after  it  all, 

When  you  really  have  nought  of  account 

to  say, 

It  is  better,  perhaps,  to  pull  leaves  by  the  way ; 
See  the  wide  moons  ride,  or  the  small  stars  fall, 
Nor  keep  down  to  the  eaith  with  the  dust  on 

the  feet, 

Upon  time-worn  levels  that  do  tire  one 
With  very  perfection  of  rest  and  retreat, 
That  the  great  world  walks  all  the  days  of  the  sun. 

H. 

And  then,  too,  in  Venice !  dear  moth-eaten  town ; 
One  palace  of  pictures ;  great  frescos  spilled  down 
Outside  of  the  walls  from  the  fulness  thereof: 
How  can  one  go  on?    Let  laugh  and  let  scoff; 
Sit  down  by  my  side  and  let  all  time  pass. 


108  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

By  the  tranquil  bride  of  the  tranquil  seas, 
By  the  white  bride  born  of  steel  and  of  storm, 
And  of  iron-footed  old  tyrannies, 
We  two  will  sit ;  and  her  beautiful  form 
Shall  shine  in  the  sea  as  her  bridal  glass. 

VENICE,  1873. 


TO    THE  LION  OF  ST.   MARK,         109 


TO  THE  LION  OF  SAINT  MARK. 

i. 

T  KNOW  you,  lion  of  gray  Saint  Mark  ; 

You  fluttered  the  seas  beneath  your  wing, 
Were  king  of  the  seas  with  never  a  king. 
Now  over  the  deep  and  up  in  the  dark, 
High  over  the  girdles  of  bright  gas-light, 
With  wings  in  the  air  as  if  for  flight, 
And  crouching  as  if  about  to  spring 
From  top  of  your  granite  of  Africa,  — 
Say,  what  shall  be  said  of  you  some  day  ? 

n. 

What  shall  be  said,  O  grim  Saint  Mark, 
Savage  old  beast  so  crossed  and  churled, 
By  the  after  men  from  the  under-world  ? 
What  shall  be  said  as  they  search  along 
And  sail  these  seas  for  some  sign  or  spark 
Of  the  old  dead  fires  of  the  dear  old  days, 
When  men  and  story  have  gone  their  ways, 
Or  even  your  city  and  name  from  song  ? 


110  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

m. 

Why,  sullen  old  monarch  of  stilled  Saint  Mark, 
Strange  men  of  the  West,  wise-mouthed  and 

strong, 

Will  come  some  day  and,  gazing  long 
And  mute  with  wonder,  will  say  of  thee : 
"  This  is  the  Saint !     High  over  the  dark, 
Foot  on  the  bible  and  great  teeth  bare, 
Tail  whipped  back  and  teeth  in  the  air  — 
Lo  !  this  is  the  Saint,  and  none  but  he  !  " 

VENICE,  1873. 


TO   THE  LION  OF  ST.  MARK  AGAIN.     Ill 


TO   THE   LION   OF  ST.  MARK  AGAIN. 


OPHINX-LIKE  lion,  art  prophet,  or  what? 

Nay,  Noah  or  prophet  art  thou  of  St.  Mark. 
But,  king  of  the  desert  or  slave  of  the  sea, 
What  thou  hast  been  or  what  shalt  be, 
What  thou  art  now  or  what  art  not, 
In  city  at  sea  or  darkling  ark,  — 
Lead  us  and  land  us  on  some  sweet  shore, 
Some  new-washed  summit  where  olives  are  green, 
And  never  the  visage  of  sorrow  is  seen 
For  ever  and  ever  and  evermore : 

n. 

To  the  Isles  of  the  Blest  by  the  Isles  of  Greece, 
And  on  and  beyond,  where  the  great  moon's  face 
Bends  low  and  large  to  the  golden  grain 
The  whole  year  through ;  where  death  nor  pain, 
Nor  any  loud  thought  has  name  or  place,  — 
To  the  land  of  olives,  to  the  land  of  peace. 
Lead  us  and  land  us,  oh  that  were  best, 
To  the  land  of  love  and  the  land  of  rest. 


112  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


III. 

Is  there  rest  upon  earth  ?     Ah,  brazen  king, 
Set  a-top  of  the  town  with  glittering  wing, 
Say !  King  of  Assyria,  set  king  of  the  sea, 
Now  what  do  you  read  from  the  prophecy  ? 
And  what  says  thy  book  ?    And  what  were  best  ? 
Oh  say,  from  thy  pulpit  set  high  in  the  air, 
When  is  the  harvest  of  love  and  where  ? 
And  where  is  the  land,  and  when  is  the  rest  ? 

IV. 

Floating  in  flood  of  salt  sea-foam, 
And  seeking  for  what  ?     For  the  golden  fleece  ? 
For  the  land  of  giants  ?    For  the  sea-lost  moon  ? 
For  the  land  of  eternal  afternoon  ? 
Or  the  gates  of  Hell  or  of  Hercules  ? 
Oh !  wrinkled  old  lion  that  tops  Saint  Mark, 
A  home  on  the  seas  were  never  a  home. 
Lo !  here  are  the  doves,  let  this  be  the  ark : 
Now  where  is  the  olive,  and  when  is  the  peace  ? 

VENICE,  1874. 


AT  NIGHT  UNDER  ST.  MARK'S  LION.     113 


UNDER  THE  LION  OF  SAINT  MARK 
AT  NIGHT. 

i. 

r\  TERRIBLE  lion  of  tamed  Saint  Mark ! 
Tamed  old  lion  with  the  tumbled  mane 
Toss'd  to  the  clouds  and  lost  in  the  dark, 
With  high-held  wings  and  tail  whipped  back, 
Foot  on  the  bible  as  if  thy  track 
Led  thee  the  lord  of  the  seas  again,  — 
Say,  what  of  thy  watch  o'er  the  watery  town  ? 
Say,  what  of  the  worlds  walking  up  and  down  ? 

n. 

O  silent  old  monarch  that  tops  Saint  Mark, 
That  sat  thy  throne  for  a  thousand  years, 
That  lorded  the  deep,  that  defied  all  men,  — 
Lo !  I  see  visions  at  sea  in  the  dark  ; 


114  S01VGS  OF  ITALY. 

And  I  see  something  that  shines  like  tears, 
And  I  hear  something  that  sounds  like  sighs, 
And  I  hear  something  that  sounds  as  when 
A  great  soul  suffers  and  sinks  and  dies. 

VENICE,  1873. 


TO  ST.  BARBARA    OF   VENICE.        115 


TO   SANTA  BARBARA  OF  VENICE. 

i. 

TT7HERE  is  my  beauty?     Oh  where  is  my 
VV      bride 

Of  the  old  dim  days  ere  the  gleaming  snows 
Sat  tent  on  the  Alps  ?     The  poppies  red 
In  the  golden  days  were  my  bridal  bed. 
Oh,  bring  me  my  bride  where  the  white  sea  flows, 
And  the  yellow  sail  blows  to  the  Lido's  side. 
I  lift  you  my  hands  and  I  pray  to  you  ; 
I  name  you  my  saint  for  this  whole  year  through. 
Oh,  bring  me  my  bride,  for  that  were  best ; 
This  were  my  heaven,  and  that  were  my  rest. 

n. 

Saint  Joseph !    My  horse !    To  my  forests  of  fir ! 
My  senses  run  mad  at  the  mention  of  her.  .  .  . 
You  had  better  be  careless.     What  conies  of  it 


116  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

That  you  do  take  care  ?  .  .  .  Nay,  call  for  your 

steed, 
Heigh  boot  and  heigh  horse,  and  away  with  a 

will; 
Clutch  the  rein,  seize,  your  horse  in  his  hair  and 

speed 

Where  the  hounds  call  bugle  calls  over  the  hill ; 
And  behold !  I  will  follow,  for  it  is  not  fit 
That  a  man  sit  singing  sad  rhymes  all  day 
As  a  love-sick  swain  or  a  maiden  may. 


A   STORM  IN  VENICE.  117 


A   STORM  IN   VENICE. 

i. 
'nPHE  pent  sea  throbbed  as  if  wracked  with 

pain. 

Some  black  clouds  rose  and  suddenly  rode 
Right  into  the  town.     The  thunder  strode 
As  a  giant  striding  from  star  to  star, 
Then  turned  upon  earth  and  frantically  came, 
Shaking  the  hollow  heaven.     And  far 
And  near  red  lightning  in  ribbon  and  skein 
Did  write  upon  heaven  Jehovah's  name. 

ir. 

Then  lightnings  went  weaving  like  shuttle-cocks, 
Weaving  black  raiment  of  clouds  for  death ; 
The  mute  doves  flew  to  Saint  Mark  in  flocks, 
And  men  stood  leaning  with  gathered  breath. 
Black  gondolas  flew  as  never  before, 
And  drew  like  crocodiles  up  on  the  shore ; 


118  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

And  vessels  at  sea  stood  further  at  sea, 
And  seamen  hauled  with  a  bended  knee. 
Then  canvas  came  down  to  left  and  to  right ; 
And  ships  stood  stripped  as  if  stripped  for  fight ! 


A   HAIL-STORM  IN  VENICE.  119 


A  HAIL  STORM  IN  VENICE. 


'TPHE  hail  like  cannon-shot  struck  the  sea 

And  churned  it  white  as  a  creamy  foam ; 
Then  hail  like  battle-shot  struck  where  we 
Stood  looking  a-sea  from  a  sea-girt  home  — 
Came  shooting  askance  as'  if  shot  at  the  head ; 
Then  glass  flew  shivered  and  men  fell  down 
And  prayed  where  they  fell,  and  half  the  town 
Lay  riddled  and  helpless  as  if  shot  dead. 

H. 

Then  lightning  right  full  in  the  eyes !  and  then 
Fair  women  fell  down  right  flat  on  the  face, 
And  prayed  their  pitiful  Mother  with  tears, 
And  prayed  black  death  as  a  hiding-place  ; 


120  SOA'GS  OF  ITALY. 

And  good  priests  prayed  for  the  sea-bound  men 
As  never  good  priests  had  prayed  for  years.  .  .  . 
Then  God  spake  thunder  !  And  then  the  rain ! 
The  great,  white,  beautiful,  high-born  rain ! 


FAREWELL  TO  ST.  MARK'S  LION.     121 


FAREWELL   TO    THE   LION  OF  SAINT 
MARK. 

i. 
r  I  ^HERE  are  sobs  of  the  sea,  there  is  blown 

black  rain. 

Lo !  under  the  lion  and  alone  in  the  dark, 
Shall  I  stand  as  I  stand  by  this  sea  again  ? 
Yet  trait'rous  old  lion  that  lords  Saint  Mark, 
I  curse  you  and  hate  you  as  ever  I  can  ; 
I  curse  you  and  hate  you  my  whole  heart  thro', 
Your  bible,  your  book  with  its  Rights  of  Man : 
For  I  named  you  my  saint,  and  I  prayed  to  you, 
And  where  is  my  love,  and  who  has  been  true  ? 

n. 

O  vain  old  lion  of  lonesome  Saint  Mark, 
With  cornice  in  fashion  of  blown  sea-foam, 
High-lifted  and  light   as  white   clouds   in   the 

dark,  — 
When  is  the  rest,  and  oh  where  is  my  home  ? 


122  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Thy  brass  steeds  plunge  through  the  dark  in  stud, 
There  are  seas  to  the  left  and  seas  to  the  right, 
Front  and  aback  there  is  nothing  but  flood, 
Nothing  but  billows  and  nothing  but  night. 

in. 

City  at  sea,  thou  art  surely  an  ark, 
Sea-blown  and  a-wreck  in  the  rain  and  dark. 
Lo !  white  sea-caps  that  are  toss'd  and  curled. 
Thy  sins   they  were   many  —  and  behold  the 

flood! 

And  here  and  about  us  are  the  beasts  in  stud, 
Creatures  and  beasts  that  creep  and  go, 
Enough,  ay,  and  wicked  enough  I  know, 
To  populate  or  devour  a  world. 

.  .  rv. 

O  wrinkled  old  lion,  looking  down 
With  brazen  frown  upon  mine  and  me, 
From  tower  a-top  of  your  watery  town, 
Old  king  of  the  desert,  made  king  of  .the  sea : 
Lo !  here  is  a  lesson  for  thee  to-day, 
Proud  and  immovable  monarch,  I  say, 
Lo  !  here  is  a  lesson  to-day  for  thee 
Of  the  things  that  were  and  the  things  to  be'; 


FAREWELL   TO  ST.  MARK'S  LION.     123 

V. 

Dank  palaces  held  by  the  populous  sea 
For  the  good  dead  men,  all  covered  with  shell,  — 
"We  will  pay  them  a  visit  some  day  ;  and  we, 
We  may  come  to  love  their  old  palaces  well. 
Bah  !  toppled  old  columns  that  tumble  across, 
Toss'd  in  the  waters  that  lift  and  fall, 
Waving  in  waves  long  masses  of  moss, 
Toppled  old  columns,  —  and  that  will  be  all. 

VI. 

Yea,  -surly  old  beast  with  a  wrinkled  brow, 
Sullen  old  sea-king  courting  the  tide, 
Proud  old  monarch  set  high  in  the  sea,  — 
This  is  the  lesson  it  leaves  for  thee : 
Nothing  has  been  that  abideth  now, 
Nothing  is  now  but  will  not  be, 
Nothing  shall  be  that  shall  abide. 

VENICE,  1874. 


124  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


AFTER    ALL. 

I. 

"D  Y  the  populous  land,  on  the  lonesome  sea, 

Lo !    these  were  the  gifts  of  the  gods  to 

men, — 

Three  miserable  gifts,  and  only  three  : 
To  love,  to  forget,  to  die  —  and  then? 

n. 

To  love  in  peril  and  in  bitter-sweet  pain, 
And  then,  forgotten,  lie  down  and  die : 

One  moment  of  sun,  whole  seasons  of  rain, 
Then  night  is  rolled  to  the  door  of  the  sky. 

in. 

To  love?     To  sit  at  her  feet  and  to  weep ; 

To  climb  to  her  face,  hide  your  face  in  her  hair ; 
To  nestle  you  there  like  a  babe  in  its  sleep, 

And,  too,  like  a  babe,  to  believe — it  stings 
there ! 


AFTER  ALL.  125 


IV. 

To  love  ?  'Tis  to  suffer.  "  Lie  close  to  my  breast, 
Like  a  fair  ship  in  haven,  O  darling,"  I  cried. 

"Your  round  arms  outreachiug  to  heaven  for  rest 
Make  signal  to  death."  .  .  .  Death  came,  and 
love  died. 

V. 

To  forget  ?     To  forget,  mount  horse  and  clutch 

sword, 

Take  ship  and  make  sail  to  the  ice-prison'd  seas. 
Write  books  and  preach  lies;   range  lands;  or 

go  hoard 

A  grave  full  of  gold,  and  buy  wines  —  and 
drink  lees: 

VI. 

Then  die ;  and  die  cursing,  and  call  it  a  prayer ! 

Is  earth  but  a  top  —  a  boy-god's  delight, 
To  be  spun  for  his  pleasure,  while  man's  despair 

Breaks  out  like  a  wail  of  the  damned  through 
the  night  ? 


126  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


vn. 

Sit  down  in  the  darkness  and  weep  with  me 
On  the  edge  of  the  world.    Lo,  love  lies  dead  I 

And  the  earth  and  the  sky,  and  the  sky  and  the 

sea, 
Seem  shutting  together  as  a  book  that  i's  read. 

vni. 
Yet  what  have  we  learned  ?     We  laughed  with 

delight 
In  the  morning  at  school,  and  kept  toying  with 

all 

Time's  silly  playthings.    Now,  wearied  ere  night, 
We  must  cry  for  dark-mother,  her  cradle  the 
pall. 

HOME,  1874. 


MAIME    MIA.  127 


MAIME   MIA. 

HTHE    quest  of    love?      'Tis  the   quest    of 

troubles ; 

'Tis  the  wind  through  the  woods  of  the  Oregon. 
Sit  down,  sit  down,  for  the  world  goes  on 
Precisely  the  same  ;  and  the  rainbow  bubbles 
Of  love,  they  gather,  or  break,  or  blow, 
Whether  you  bother  your  brain  or  no ; 
And  for  all  your  troubles,  and  all  your  tears, 
'Twere  just  the  same  in  a  hundred  years. 

ROME,  1874. 


128  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


THE  WINGED  LION   ONCE  MORE. 


THE  Venetians  will  tell  you  that  this  wonderful  work  of  art 
was  fashioned  in  Babylon  by  the  sons  of  Nimrod.  Also,  that 
before  it  was  taken  from  Venice  by  Napoleon  the  Great  its 
eyes  were  made  of  diamonds,  so  large  and  luminous  that  they 
lighted  up  all  that  part  of  the  city. 

Mr.  Kuskin  says  there  is  no  authority  for  giving  this  won 
derful  creation  such  great  antiquity.  He  is  inclined  to  call 
it  the  work  of  the  thirteenth  century;  but  equally  without 
authority,  as  he  admits.  To  me  it  is  the  most  simple  and 
sublime  thing  in  the  world.  Seen  in  the  night,  high  over  the 
sea  and  the  circle  of  gaslights,  the  broken  clouds  blowing  over 
the  large  low  moon  —  it  is  worth  a  journey  round  the  world 
to  behold  it! 

I  must  admit  that,  in  the  many  verses  to  my  grand  old 
idol,  I  hare  been  careless  of  facts.  In  truth,  I  know  little 
about  the  history  of  the  Lion  of  St.  Mark  save  what  the  Ve 
netians  told  me.  I  never  owned  a  guide-book ;  and  I  never 
in  all  my  travels  read  a  book  on  Art.  In  fact,  I  met  so  many 
fools  who  had  read  books  on  Art,  that  I  was  afraid  to  try  the 
experiment. 

Napoleon  had  the  lion  taken  down  from  the  column  where 
it  had  stood  for  nearly  five  hundred  years  ;  and  in  the  open 
book,  on  which  the  foot  is  planted,  he  caused  to  be  written 
"The  Rights  of  Man." 

When  the  lion  was  restored,  the  Venetians  said,  "  It  is 
indeed  our  dear  old  lion,  only  he  has  turned  over  a  new 
leaf  ! " 


THE    WINGED  LION  ONCE  MORE.    129 


I. 
"\  T  7INGED  old  beast  of  the  burning  sands, 

Captive  and  rover  of  north-south  lands : 
Say,  what  saw  you  in  the  land  of  the  Gaul  ? 
In  the  days  when  they  clutched  at  thy  mane, 

and  when 

They  wrote  in  thy  bible  the  Rights  of  Men  ? 
Wrote  them  and  read  them,  —  and  that  was  all. 

n. 

What  saw  you  in  that  land,  I  say, 
That  land  of  change,  and  of  gifted  mad  men  ? 
Silent  old  lion,  say,  what  have  you  seen? 
Nothing  but  gleaming  of  steel,  I  ween, 
Nothing  but  marching  of  men,  as  when 
Men  shall  march  in  the  Judgment  Day. 

ni. 

This  is  the  story  the  whole  world  through. 
Austrian  or  Frank,  or  king  or  queen, 
In  the  name  of  freedom  to  plunder  you : 
Nay,  nothing  but  this  has  any  man  seen 
In  your  watery  world  where  might  has   been 
right, 

Since  God  first  reached  from  the  dark  the  light. 
9 


130  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

IV. 

Rumbling  of  cannon  and  neighing  of  steed  — 
The  worship  of  strength.    Lo  !  Tuscan  and  Gaul, 
They  were  gods  in  their  turn.     Glory  and  greed 
Did  set  and  unsettle  thy  whole  world's  creed ; 
And  thy  Christ,  O  lion,  did  rise  and  fall 
By  the  feats  of  strength.    Take  heed,  take  heed, 
Lest  thy  God  shall  depend  on  a  cannon  ball  I 

VENICE,  1874. 


CAVALIER  vs.   CAVALIER.  131 


CAVALIER  vs.   CAVALIER. 

i. 

,  no  whit  jealous  of  him  was  I : 
I  had  sat  at  his  table,  tasted  his  wine, 
Broken  his  bread,  as  he  had  mine  — 
And  I  would  to  heaven  I  had  broken  his  head ! 
I  had  shot  at  him  once,  and  let  him  try 
His  hand  meantime  ten  paces  at  me. 
He  missed  his  mark,  while  I  you  see, 
At  the  last  year's  carnival  down  at  Rome, 
Troubled  his  seconds  to  carry  him  home. 

n. 

Well,  it  fell  out  thus  in  a  revelry : 

We  had  sat  at  his  table  the  whole  night  through, 

There  were  vessels  of  gold,  great  cups,  mark  you, 

That  were  sacred  indeed  unto  better  things 

Than  midnight  orgies  and  revellings  ; 

Then  at  morn  he  said,  as  he  toss'd  his  wine, 


132  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Tauntingly,  too,  of  this  love  of  mine, 
"  A  woman  to  win !  the  way  is  free ! 
I  have  my  gold,  you  have  your  wit  — 
Time  will  tell  us  what  comes  of  it ! " 


A   PRINCE   OF  ROME.  133 


A  PRINCE   OF   ROME. 

i. 

A  Y,  dashing  is  he  indeed,  and  bold 

As  any  young  Csesar,  and  handsome  too. 
And  when  he  enters  the  proudest  hall, 
He  doffs  his  hat,  for  he  stands  so  tall.  .  .  . 
But  where  do  you  reckon  he  got  his  gold  ? 
Now  it  might  have  been  from  that  galleon 
That  sank,  as  we  know,  an  age  ago 
Off  the  gray  coast  of  Mexico. 

n. 

But  listen  to  me.     One  morn  last  year, 
When  he  did  not  limp  for  that  taunt  and  sneer 
At  my  one  fair  love,  —  we  were  strangers  then, 
And  I  knew  him  only  as  a  prince  of  men, — 
Why,  we  two  rode  the  Campagna  plain 
That  stretches  away  to  the  west  of  Rome, 
When  sudden  he  turned  to  St.  Peter's  dome, 
And,  stretching  his  hand  toward  the  Vatican,    • 
He  laughed  like  a  giant,  he  cursed  like  a  man : 
Cried,  "  Gold!"  then  sank  to  his  saddle  again. 


134  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


in. 

A  curious  old  Spanish  proverb  says 
That  many  and  various  are  the  bits  of  leather 
Saint  Crispin  uses  to  make  one  boot ; 
And  that  never  was  boot  without  its  foot, 
To  fit  it  as  neat  as  a  glove,  and  suit 
The  one  to  the  other  in  all  the  ways. 
Well,  then,  put  this  and  put  that  together, 
Fragments  of  fact  like  fragments  of  leather, 
And  know  in  the  end  what  you  may  know 
Of  that  same  prince  Pimos  from  Mexico. 

rv. 

Well,  this  is  the  story  that  a  brown  monk  tells, 
A  gray-bearded  Capucin  monk  of  Rome, 
Who  hobbles  about  in  the  bleak  bone  cells, 
In  that  strange  old  nest  of  the  Capucin  ; 
For  much  he  has  journey'd  and  much  he  has  seen : 
One  time,  on  the  borders  of  Mexico, 
A  grizzled  old  seaman  came  bent  and  slow, 
And  leading  a  boy,  and  imploring  a  home, 
Outholding  two  handsfull  of  gold  for  it ; 
Two  great  hands  shaking  like  an  ague  fit. 


A   PRINCE   OF  ROME.  135 


V. 

They  smiled  at  his  gold,  as  the  good  monks  do, 

But  gave  him  a  home,  with  all  their  heart ; 

And  no  one  questioned  and  no  one  cared 

What  his  history,  place,  or  part  — 

Only  to  know  that  the  wayfarer  shared 

Their  home  content.     The  bright  boy  grew 

Into  man's  estate,  but  wild  as  the  wind ; 

And,  leaving  the  convent  walls  behind, 

Oft  he  would  wander  the  whole  year  through : 

But  why  he  wandered  away,  or  where, 

There  was  none  to  question,  and  but  one  to  care. 

VI. 

Well,  there  be  men  who  are  ready  to  swear 
That  they  saw  this  same  prince  years  ago, 
With  his  princely  air  and  his  princely  ease, 
Astride  of  his  mule,  with  his  saddle-bow 
Swung  with  pistols,  as  he  rode  on  down 
The  mountain  trail  to  the  mountain  town  : 
His  long  hair  blown  in  the  mountain  breeze, 
And  a  brigand's  badge  of  command  high  blown 
From  his  feathered  hat  as  he  rode  alone. 


136  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


VII. 

Then  long  he  ranged  in  his  journeys  and  far 
Over  mountains  that  climbed  to  the  morning 

star. 

And  the  old  man  died ;  but  the  boy  was  away,  — 
Robbing?  —  or  trading?     It  is  much  the  same  : 
The  same  result  with  a  different  name. 
The  shopman  he  robs  you  from  day  to  day, 
Little  by  little,  that  you  may  not  reck  ; 
Robs  you  by  lies,  risks  body  and  soul : 
The  dashing  bold  robber  he  takes  the  whole, 
Tells  you  the  truth,  and  but  risks  his  neck. 

VIII. 

.  .  .  And  mark !  as  he  rode  with  the  king  last  year 
Through  a  marsh  of  the  Tiber,  a  buffalo, 
Humped-backed  and  horrible,   plunged  at  his 

steed, 

When  the  king  struck  spurs,  and  fled  in  fear. 
But  he,  whipping  his  lasso  as  quick  as  thought, 
Threw  it,  and  throttled  the  beast  on  the  spot.    • 
And  who,  my  prince,  I  should  like  to  know, 
But  a  vulgar  vaquero  could  do  such  a  deed  ? 


A   PRINCE   OF  ROME.  137 


rx. 

But,  where  did  he  get  his  gold  ?  this  prince,  — 
The  bright  gold  eagle  and  the  old  doubloon, 
The  old  gold  plate,  and  the  great  gold  spoon, 
And  the  tall  gold  goblet,  and  the  quaint  gold  cup 
That  star  his  table  when  he  comes  to  sup  ? 
The  gold  alone  is  the  question,  since 
Here,  in  Italy,  princes  are  —  well, 
Princes  are  thicker  than  fiddlers  in  hell. 

EOME,  1873. 


138  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


GAMBLER   OR  PRINCE? 


some  have  said,  and  so  may  you, 
It  was  nobody's  business,  while  the  man 

could  hold 

His  head  like  a  prince  and  bear  him  true, 
Where  the  gambler  picked  up  his  gold, 
Or  whether  the  prince  was  a  prince  or  not. 
And  then,  when  it  cost  you  a  pistol  shot 
To  ask  the  question,  'twas  overbold 
To  question  at  all.     But  then  my  friend 
Would  know  who  he  was ;  and  he  fought  to  this 
end. 

ii. 

One  night,  as  he  sat  with  his  goblets  of  gold, 
He  mentioned  the  name  of  my  brave  friend's  sire ; 
And  very  complacently  sat  and  told 
That  he  himself  was  this  great  man's  son. 
Vengeance  and  fury !     My  friend  was  on  fire ! 
The  man  sprang  up  as  if  shot  from  a  gun, 


GAMBLER   OR  PRINCE.  139 

And  lie  thrust  the  lie  in  his  teeth ;  and  then 

Asked  where  was  his  family  founded,  and  when? 

He  then  sat  down,  and  a  pistol  shot 

Was  all  the  answer  that  any  one  got. 

They  fought  at  dawn :  shot  square  thro'  the  head, 

The  gypsy-stol'n  brother  and  prince  lay  dead. 

NAPLES,  1874. 


140  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


A  PEASANT'S  PLEA. 

i. 
T  TAD  he  made  her  his  spouse  like  a  man,  why 

then, 

Still  might  he  doff  his  tall  plume  to  men ; 
Had  he  loved  like  a  prince,  had  she  loved  him 

true, 

Why,  I  could  have  waited  her  life-time  through ; 
Could  have  crossed  and  have  waited  on  the  other 

side, 

With  my  two  hands  held  to  my  coming  bride : 
For  the  days  of  the  earth  they  be  but  a  day 
That  lie  like  a  shadow  across  life's  way, 
And  a  brief  night-land  that  divides  the  sea 
Of  the  years  that  were  from  the  years  to  be. 

n. 

But  to  know  that  she  lay  in  his  arms  in  sin, 
That  the  great  strong  beast  arose  from  the  feast 
And  went  to  my  bride  he  had  bought  with  his 
gold!  .  .  . 


A   PEASANT'S  PLEA.  141 

Ha !  the  night  after  that  —  why,  they  called  in  a 

priest 

To  pray  for  a  prince  who  was  found  all  cold 
In  a  narrow  canal,  with  his  head  crushed  in  — 
Perhaps  by  a  tile !  .  .  .  Oh,  the  blessed  sweet 

pain 
Of  revenge,  as  I  fled  to  my  mountains  again ! 

MILAN,  1873. 


142  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


A  DREAM   OF  VENICE. 


r  I  HHERE  are  doves  overhead,  going  in,  blow 
ing  out ; 

They  are  wooing  and  cooing  and  talking  of  love, 
The  white  and  the  gray  and  the  purple-robed 

dove. 

They  are  billing  and  cooing  and  flying  about 
By  the  high  chiselled  capital,  cornice,  and  that  : 
And  I  envy  them,  hate  them,  I  curse  thereat, 
And  I  call  "  Oh,  my  love ! "     Cold  echoes  come 

back 
As  if  hurled  from  the  walls  and  sent  hounding 

my  track. 

n. 

Now  let  us  turn  back  from  the  watery  town ; 
Let  the  water-rat  build ;  let  the  cornice  above 
Change  color  from  clouds  of  the  purple-necked 

dove ; 
Let  the   yellow-sailed  sea-craft  ride  pleasantly 

down. 


A   DREAM  OF  VENICE.  143 

Let  the  soft  morning  sun  lie  in  long  broken 

bars 
'Gainst  the  tall  palace  walls.     Let  us  go  from 

the  land 
Of  the  bride  of  my  soul  with  the  small  dimpled 

hand, 
That  I  led  through  the  outermost  reach  of  red 

stars. 


144  SONGS  OF  ITALY.  ' 


FOR   THE   NILE. 

i. 
*\  T  7HAT  !  turn  me  from  Venice  ?     To  leave 

*  *       her  at  last! 

This  city  I  loved  in  my  search  through  the  vast 
And  the  unnamed  seas  of  the  universe  ? 
To  turn  me  for  aye  from  this  face  of  hers  ? 
St.  Joseph !     To  dream  it  could  come  to  this ! 
You  never  have  known,  then,  what  love  is ! 

n. 

I  am  lone  as  Marius  'mid  ruins  could  be. 
Yea,  a  sea  of  fair  people  that  walk  by  the  sea 
In  the  cool  of  the  morn  by  St.  Mark ;  and  they 

talk 
Of  the  things  that  are  nearest  the  heart  as  they 

walk, 
And  all  are  made  glad.    But,  Christ !  as  for  me  I 


FOR   THE  NILE.  145 

III. 

Lo  !    I  shall  depart  and  I  know  not  where  ; 
Let  the  men  be  brave,  let  the  maids  be  fair, 
Let  the  wrinkled  old  lion  that  tops  the  town 
Now  ruffle  his  mane,  St.  Theodore  frown,  — 
It  is  nothing  to  me.     I  shall  love  but  the  one, 
This  one  fair  city  that  is  under  the  sun. 

IV. 

I  shall  bear  her  afar  and  anywhere  ; 
I  have  hid  my  heart  in  the  gold  of  her  hair.  .  .  . 
Her  fair  holy  face,  her  great  soft  eyes, 
Liquid  with  love.     Her  soul's  surprise, 
Then  the  calm  delight  that  the  world  is  aware 
When  she  rests  in  ruins,  like  .the  curtains  of 
skies. 

VENICE,  1874. 


10 


146  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


VESPERS   IN  SAN  MARCO. 

r  I  "'HE  four  brazen  horses !  unbridled  as  when 
This  Venice  was  Venice,  and  the  wise 

led  the  brave 
Through  the  gates  of  the   Turk,  through  the 

turbulent  main, 

And  led  the  steeds  home  from  the  Hellespont,  — 
They  plunge  in  the  gaslight  as  bridled  again. 
The  vast  ducal  palace  frowns  dark  in  the  wave, 
The  white  Bridge  of  Sighs  — .  a  brief,  narrow 

span  — 
Draws  back  in  a  chasm.      The   grand   gilded 

dome, 
Where  the  doves  of  St.  Mark  all  the  year  have 

their  home, 
Sounds  hollow  and  deep  like  a  far  plashing 

font. 


RECOLLECTION.  147 


RECOLLECTION. 

i. 

~\  T  7E  dwelt  in  the  woods  of  the  Tippecanoe, 
In  a  lone  lost  cabin  with  never  the  view 
Of  the  full  day's  sun  for  the  whole  year  thro' .  .  . 
With  strange  half-hints  through  the  russet  corn 
We   children   were   hurried  one  night.     Next 

morn 
There  was  frost  in  the  trees,  and  a  sprinkle  of 

.  snow, 

And  tracks  on  the  ground.  Three  boys  below 
The  low  eaves  listened.  We  opened  the  door, 
And  a  girl  baby  cried,  —  and  then  we  were  four. 

n. 

We  were  not  sturdy,  and  we  were  not  wise 
In  the  things  of  the  world  or  the  ways  of  men. 
A  pale-browed  mother  with  a  prophet's  eyes, 
A  father  that  dreamed  and  looked  anywhere. 


148  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Three  brothers,  —  wild  blossoms,  tall-fashioned 

and  fair ; 
And  we  mingled  with  none,  but  we  lived  as 

when 

The  pair  first  lived  ere  they  knew  the  fall ; 
And,  loving  all  things,  we  believed  in  all. 

in. 

Ah !  girding  yourself  and  throwing  your  strength 
On  the  front  of  a  forest  that  stands  in  mail 
Sounds  gallant,  indeed,  in  a  pioneer's  tale. 
But,  God  in  heaven  !  the  weariness 
Of  a  sweet  soul  banished  to  a  life  like  this ! 
This  reaching  of  weary-worn  arms  full  length ; 
This  stooping  all  day  to  the  stubborn  cold  soil  — 
This  holding  the  heart !  it  is  more  than  toil ! 
What  loneness  of  heart !    What  wishings  to  die 
In  that  soul  in  the  earth,  that  was  born  for  the 
sky! 

IV. 
We  parted  wood-curtains,  pushed  westward,  and 

we, 
Why,  we  wandered  and  wandered  a  half  year 

through ; 


RECOLLECTION.  149 

We  tented  with  herds  as  the  Arabs  do, 

And  at  last  sat  down  by  the  sundown  sea. 

Then  there  in  that  sun  did  my  soul  take  fire ! 

It  burned  in  its  fervor,  thou  Venice,  for  thee ! 

My  glad  heart  glowed  with  the  one  desire 

To  stride  to  the  front,  to  live,  to  be  ! 

To  strow  great  thoughts  through  the  world  as 

I  went, 
As  God  sows  stars  through  the  firmament. 

VENICE,  1874. 


150  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


TORCELLO. 

'"T^HE  sometime  song  of  gondolier 
Is  heard  afar.     The  fishermen 
Betimes  draw  net  by  ruined  shore, 
In  full  spring-time  when  east  winds  fall ; 
Then  traders  row  with  muffled  oar, 
Then  long-leg  birds  stretch  neck,  and  then 
Tedesca  or  the  turban'd  Turk, 
The  pirate,  at  some  midnight  work 
By  watery  wall,  —  but  that  is  all. 


NOTE.  —  The  author  begs  to  apologize  for  reprinting  from 
an  earlier  volume  this  and  the  two  following  pieces,  which 
appropriately  belong  to  "Songs  of  Italy." 


ATTILA'S   THRONE,  151 


ATTILA'S   THRONE:    TORCELLO. 

i. 

I"  DO  recall  some  sad  days  spent 

By  borders  of  the  Orient, 
Days  sweet  as  sad  to  memory  .  .  . 
'T  would  make  a  tale.     It  matters  not  .  .  . 
I  sought  the  loneliest  seas  ;  I  sought 
The  solitude  of  ruins,  and  forgot 
Mine  own  lone  life  and  littleness 
Before  this  fair  land's  mute  distress,  • 

That  sat  within  this  changeful  sea. 

• 

n. 

Slow  sailing  through  the  reedy  isles, 
By  unknown  banks,  through  unknown  bays, 
Some  sunny,  summer  yesterdays, 
Where  Nature's  beauty  still  beguiles, 
I  watched  the  storied  yellow  sail 
And  lifted  prow  of  steely  mail. 
'Tis  all  that's  left  Torcello  now,  — 
A  pirate's  yellow  sail,  a  prow. 


152  SOA'GS  Of  ITALY. 

HI. 

Below  the  far,  faint  peaks  of  snow, 
And  grass-grown  causeways  well  below, 
I  touched  Torcello. 

Once  on  land, 

I  took  a  sea-shell  in  my  hand, 
And  blew  like  any  trumpeter. 
I  felt  the  fig-leaves  lift  and  stir 
On  trees  that  reach  from  ruined  wall 
Above  my  head,  —  but  that  was  all. 
Back  from  the  farther  island  shore 
Came  echoes  trooping  —  nothing  more. 

rv. 

Yet  here  stood.  Adria  once,  and  here 
Came  Attila  with  sword  and  flame, 
And  set  his  throne  of  hollowed  stone 
In  her  high  mart. 

And  it  remains 

Still  lord  o'er  all.     Where  once  the  tears 
Of  mute  petition  fell,  the  rains 
Of  heaven  fall.     Lo !  all  alone 
There  lifts  this  massive  empty  throne ! 
The  sea  has  changed  his  meed,  his  mood, 
And  made  this  sedgy  solitude. 


ATT/LA'S   THRONE.  153 

V. 

By  cattle  paths  grass-grown  and  worn, 
Through  marbled  streets  all  stain'd  and  torn 
By  time  and  battle,  lone  I  walked. 
A  bent  old  beggar,  white  as  one 
For  better  fruitage  blossoming,  . 
Came  on.     And  as  he  came  he  talked 
Unto  himself;  for  there  are  none 
In  all  his  island,  old  and  dim, 
To  answer  back  or  question  him. 

VI. 

I  turned,  retraced  my  steps  once  more. 
The  hot  miasma  steamed  and  rose 
In  deadly  vapor  from  the  reeds 
That  grew  from  out  the  shallow  shore, 
Where  peasants  say  the  sea-horse  feeds, 
And  Nepture  shapes  his  horn  and  blows 

vn. 

I  climb'd  and  sat  that  throne  of  stone 
To  contemplate,  to  dream,  to  reign  — 
Ay,  reign  above  myself ; '  to  call 
The  people  of  the  past  again 


154  SONGS* OF  ITALY. 

Before  me  as  I  sat  alone 
In  all  my  kingdom. 

There  were  kine 

That  browsed  along  the  reedy  brine, 
And  now  and  then  a  tusky  boar 
Would  shake  the  high  reeds  of  the  shore, 
A  bird  blow  by,  —  but  that  was  all. 


vm. 

I  watched  the  lonesome  sea-gull  pass. 
I  did  remembar  and  forget,  — 
The  past  rolled  by ;  I  stood  alone. 
I  sat  the  shapely  chiselled  stone 
That  stands  in  tall  sweet  grasses  set ; 
Ay,  girdle  deep  in  long  strong  grass, 
And  green  alfalfa. 

Very  fair 

The  heavens  were,  and  still  and  blue, 
For  Nature  knows  no  changes  there. 
The  Alps  of  Venice,  far  away, 
Like  some  half-risen  large  moon  lay. 


ATTILAS  THRONE.  155 

IX. 

How  sweet  the  grasses  at  my  feet ! 
The  smell  of  clover  over  sweet. 
I  heard  the  hum  of  bees.     The  bloom 
Of  clover-tops  and  cherry-trees 
Were  being  rifled  by  the  bees, 
And  these  were  building  in  a  tomb. 

x. 

The  fair  alfalfa  —  such  as  has 
Usurped  the  Occident,  and  grows 
With  all  the  sweetness  of  the  rose 
On  Sacramento's  sundown  hills  — 
Is  there,  and  that  dead  island  fills 
With  fragrance.     Yet  the  smell  of  death 
Comes  riding  in  on  every  breath. 

XI. 

Lo !  death  that  is  not  death,  but  rest : 
To  step  aside,  to  watch  and  wait 
Beside  the  wave,  outside  the  gate, 
With  all  life's  pulses  in  your  breast : 
To  absolutely  rest,  to  pray 
In  some  lone  mountain  while  you  may. 


156  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

XII. 

That  sad  sweet  fragrance.     It  had  sense, 
And  sound,  and  voice.     It  was  a  part 
Of  that  which  had  possessed  my  heart, 
And  would  not  of  my  will  go  hence. 
'Twas  Autumn's  breath  ;  'twas  dear  as  kiss 
Of  any  worshipped  woman  is. 

XIII. 

Some  snails  had  climb'd  the  throne  and  writ 
Their  silver  monograms  on  it 
In  unknown  tongues. 

I  sat  thereon, 

I  dreamed  until  the  day  was  gone ; 
I  blew  again  my  pearly  shell,  — 
Blew  long  and  strong,  and  loud  and  well ; 
I  puffed  my  cheeks,  I  blew,  as  when 
Horn'd  satyrs  danced  the  delight  of  men. 

XIV. 

Some  mouse-brown  cows  that  fed  within 
Looked  up.     A  cowherd  rose  hard  by, 
My  single  subject,  clad  in  skin, 
Nor  yet  half-clad. 


ATTILAS  THRONE.  157 

I  caught  his  eye,  — 
He  stared  at  me,  then  turned  and  fled. 
He  frightened  fled,  and  as  he  ran, 
Like  wild  beast  from  the  face  of  man, 
Across  his  shoulder  threw  his  head. 

XV. 

He  gathered  up  his  skin  of  goat 

About  his  breast  and  hairy  throat ; 

He  stopped,  and  then  this  subject  true, 

Mine  only  one  in  all  the  isle, 

Turned  round,  and,  with  a  fawning  smile, 

Came  back  and  asked  me  for  a  sou! 


158  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


SANTA  MARIA:    TORCELLO. 

i. 

A  ND  yet  again  through  the  watery  miles 

Of  reeds  I  rowed,  till  the  desolate  isles 
Of  the  black  bead-makers  of  Venice  were  not. 
I  touched  where  a  single  sharp  tower  is  shot 
To  heaven,  and  torn  by  thunder  and  rent 
As  if  it  had  been  Time's  battlement. 
A  city  lies  dead,  and  this  great  gravestone 
Stands  on  its  grave  like  a  ghost  alone. 

n. 

Some  cherry-trees  grow  here,  and  here 
An  old  church,  simple  and  severe 
In  ancient  aspect,  stands  alone 
Amid  the  ruin  and  decay,  all  grown 
In  moss  and  grasses. 

Old  and  quaint, 

With  antique  cuts  of  martyr'd  saint, 
The  gray  church  stands  with  stooping  knees, 
Defying  the  decay  of  seas. 


SANTA   MARIA.  159 

III. 

Her  pictured  Hell,  with  flames  blown  high, 
In  bright  mosaics  wrought  and  set 
When  man  first  knew  the  Nubian  art, 
Her  bearded  saints  as  black  as  jet, 
Her  quaint  Madonna,  dim  with  rain 
And  touch  of  pious  lips  of  pain, 
So  touched  my  lonesome  soul,  that  I 
Gazed  long,  then  came  and  gazed  again, 
And  loved,  and  took  her  to  my  heart. 

IV. 

Nor  monk  in  black,  nor  Capucin, 

Nor  priest  of  any  creed  was  seen. 

A  sun-browned  woman,  old  and  tall, 

And  still  as  any  shadow  is, 

Stole  forth  from  out  the  mossy  wall 

With  massive  keys  to  show  me  this : 

Came  slowly  forth,  and,  following, 

Three  birds  —  and  all  with  drooping  wing. 

v. 

Three  mute  brown  babes  of  hers ;  and  they  — 
Oh,  they  were  beautiful  as  sleep, 


160  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Or  death,  below  the  troubled  deep ! 
And  on  the  pouting  lips  of  these, 
Red  corals  of  the  silent  seas, 
Sweet  birds,  the  everlasting  seal 
Of  silence  that  the  God  has  set 
On  this  dead  island  sits  for  aye. 

VI. 

I  would  forget,  yet  not  forget 
Their  helpless  eloquence.     They  creep 
Somehow  into  my  heart,  and  keep 
One  bleak,  cold  corner,  jewel  set. 
•They  steal  my  better  self  away 
To  them,  as  little  birds  that  day 
Stole  fruits  from  out  the  cherry-trees. 

VII. 

So  helpless  and  so  wholly  still, 
So  sad,  so  wrapt  in  mute  surprise, 
That  I  did  love,  despite  my  will. 
One  little  maid  of  ten  —  such  eyes, 
So  large  and  lonely,  so  divine ! 
Such  pouting  lips,  such  pearly  cheek !  - 


SANTA   MARIA.  161 

Did  lift  her  perfect  eyes  to  mine, 
Until  our  souls  did  touch  and  speak  — 
Stood  by  me  all  that  perfect  day, 
Yet  not  one  sweet  word  could  she  say. 

VIII. 

She  turned  her  melancholy  eyes 
So  constant  to  my  own,  that  I 
Forgot  the  going  clouds,  the  sky ; 
Found  fellowship,  took  bread  and  wine  : 
And  so  her  little  soul  and  mine 
Stood  very  near  together  there. 
And  oh,  I  found  her  very  fair ! 
Yet  not  one  soft  word  could  she  say : 
What  did  she  think  of  all  that  day  ? 


11 


162  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


LILIAN. 

i. 

OHE  is  dark  as  Israel.     She  is  proud  and  still 

As  Lebanon  pine  on  the  Palatine  Hill. 
Her  name  it  is  Lilla ;  a  plain,  pretty  name 
That  syllables  by  quite  simple  and  tame, 
Until  you  have  looked  on   her  presence  j   and 

then !  — 

Oh,  it  then  means  to  you,  as  to  me  it  has  meant, 
The  fairest  thing  under  the  firmament. 

n. 

Her  name  is  as  language  ;  and,  when  I  know 

Nor  name  nor  type  to  give  utterance  to 

My  grandest  conception  of  woman,  she 

Stands  up  in  my  soul,  calm,  silently, 

And  fills  the  blank  with  her  own  sweet  name. 

Ay,  even  at  mention  of  her  I  grow  — 

Grow  grand  and  splendid  as  is  growing  flame. 


LILIAN.  163 

\ 

III. 

Thou  dark  silent  pine  of  the  Palatine  Hill ! 
Thou  princess  and  empress,  I  look  to  thee  still, 
Disdain  as  you  will ;  for  my  gods  they  must  be. 
Yea,  regal  my  soul,  and,  having  known  thee, 
How  can  I  to  others  bow  knee  or  bend  will  ?  . . . 
Now,  come  what  comes,  my  whole  life  through 
I  shall  be  the  nobler  for  this  love  of  you. 


164  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


LIFE. 

T    IFE  ?    'Tis  the  story  of  love  and  of  troubles, 
Of  troubles  and  love,  that  travel  together 
The  round  world  through.      Behold  the  bubbles 
Of  love  !    Then  troubles  and  turbulent  weather. 
Why,  man  had  all  Eden !  Then  love,  then  Cain  I 
Go  away,  go  away  with  your  bitter-sweet  pain 
Of  love,  and  leave  us !     Come !  care  not  a  pin, 
Until  peace  goes  out,  and  till  love  comes  in. 

NAPLES,  1874. 


IN  PERE  LA    CHAISE.  165 


IN  PERE   LA   CHAISE. 

i. 

A  N  avenue  of  tombs !     I  stand  before 
The  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Eloise. 
A  long,  a  dark  bent  line  of  cypress  trees 
Leads  past  and  on  to  other  shrines  ;  but  o'er 
This  tomb  the  boughs  hang  darkest  and  most 

dense, 

Like  leaning  mourners  clad  in  black.    The  sense 
Of  awe  oppresses  you.     This  solitude 
Means  more  than  common  sorrow.     Down  the 

wood 

Still  lovers  pass,  then  pause,  then  turn  again, 
And  weep  like  silent,  unobtrusive  rain. 

IT. 

'Tis  but  a  simple,  antique  tomb  that  kneels 
As  one  that  weeps  above  the  broken  clay. 
'Tis  stained  with  storms,  'tis  eaten  well  away, 
Nor  half  the  old-new  story  now  reveals 


166  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

Of  heart  that  held  beyond  the  tomb  to  heart. 
But  oh,  it  tells  of  love !     And  that  true  page 
Is  more  in  this  cold,  hard,  commercial  age, 
When  love  is  calmly  counted  some  lost  art, 
Than  all  man's  mighty  monuments  of  war 
Or  archives  vast  of  art  and  science  are. 

in. 

Here  poets  pause  and  dream  a  listless  hour ; 
Here  silly  pilgrims  stoop  and  kiss  the  clay  ; 
Here  sweetest  maidens  leave  a  cross  or  flower, 
While  vandals  bear  the  tomb  in  bits  away. 
The  ancient  stone  is   scarred  with  name   and 

scrawl 

Of  many  tender  fools.     But  over  all, 
And  high  above  all  other  scrawls,  is  writ 
One  simple  thing,  most  touching  and  most  fit. 
Some  pitying  soul  has  tiptoed  high  above, 
And  with  a  nail  has  scrawled  but  this :    "  O 

Love!" 

IV. 

O  Love  !  .  .  .  I  turn  ;  I  climb  the  hill  of  tombs, 
Where  sleeps  the  "  bravest  of  the  brave,"  below, 
His  bed  of  scarlet  blooms  in  zone  of  snow  — 
No  cross  nor  sign,  save  this  red  bed  of  blooms. 


IN  PERE  LA    CHAISE.  167 

I  see  grand  tombs  to  France's  lesser  dead,  — 

Colossal  steeds,  white  pyramids,  still  red 

At  base  with  blood,  still  torn  with  shot  and  shell, 

To  testify  that  here  the  Commune  fell : 

And  yet  I  turn  once  more  from  all  of  these, 

And  stand  before  the  tomb  of  Eloise. 

PARIS,  1872. 


168  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


LONGING  FOR  HOME. 

i. 

I  but  return  to  my  woods  once  more, 
And  dwell  in  their  depths  as  I  have  dwelt, 
Kneel  in  their  mosses  as  I  have  knelt, 
Sit  where  the  cool  white  rivers  run, 
Away  from  the  world  and  half  hid  from  the  sun, 
Hear  wind  in  the  woods  of  my  storm-torn  shore, 
Glad  to  the  heart  with  listening,  — 
It  seems  to  me  that  I  then  could  sing, 
And  sing  as  I  n^ver  have  sung  before. 

H. 

I  miss,  how  wholly  I  miss  my  wood, 

My  matchless,  magnificent  dark-leaved  firs 

That  climb  up  the  terrible  heights  of  Hood, 

Where  only  the  breath  of  white  heaven  stirs ! 

These  Alps  they  are  barren ;  wrapped  in  storms, 

Formless  masses  of  Titan  forms, 

They  loom  like  ruins  of  a  grandeur  gone, 

And  lonesome  as  death  to  look  up6n. 


LONGING  FOR  HOME.  169 

HI. 

O  God !  once  more  in  my  life  to  hear 
The  voice  of  a  wood  that  is  loud  and  alive, 
That  stirs  with  its  being  like  a  vast  bee-hive  ! 
And  oh,  once  more  in  my  life  to  see 
The  great  bright  eyes  of  the  antlered  deer ; 
To  sing  with  the  birds  that  sing  for  me, 
To  tread  where  only  the  red  man  trod, 
To  say  no  word,  but  listen  to  God ! 

VERONA,  1873. 


1TO  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


PESTAM. 

nr"*HIS  land  it  is  desolate,  dead  as  death  ! 
Never  the  sound  of  a  beast  or  a  bird, 
Nor  voices  of  Nature  above  a  breath ; 
Never  the  wild  deer's  quick  retreat, 
Never  the  pheasant's  far  drum-beat : 
Only  the  hideous  marsh  buffalo, 
With  a  half-choked  moan  or  a  lazy  low ; 
Only  the  dull  cloven  tramp  of  the  herd ; 
Only  the  tiresome  gray  outlook ; 
Only  the  tourist  tight  holding  a  book, 
A  red-bound  book  as  a  lamp  for  his  feet ! 

PESTAM,  1873. 


TITIAN'S  LAND.  171 


TITIAN'S   LAND. 

i. 

T  JOURNEYED  to  Titian's  torn  land  last  year, 
To  make  me  companions  of  peaks  as  of  old : 
The  gray  peaks  lifted  their  granite  brows 
As  barren  and  cold  as  a  virgin's  vows. 
I  saw  and  was  silent.     Unutterable  thought 
Was  mine,  and  a  boyhood's  memory  rolled 
On  past;  and  I  gave  to  the  past  a  tear. 
I  lived  dead  days  that  were  best  forgot. 

H. 

I  listened  for  bird,  for  beast.     Lo  !  a  gloom 
Had  mantled  the  land  like  a  mournful  cloud, 
And  lay  like  the  solitude  guarding  a  tomb. 
I  spake  and  made  sign  —  but  they  answered  me 

not. 

I  lifted  my  hands  and  I  called  aloud  — 
Then  echoes  went  rolling  from  cliff  to  cloud, 
And  peasants  came  cautious,  strange-clad  and 

tall: 
Echoes  and  peasants,  —  and  that  was  all : 


172  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


m. 

Wild  peasants  that  cling  to  the  cliffs,  and  reap, 
With  short  broad  scythes,  the  adventurous  grain ; 
Then  peasants  that  dwell  by  the  timbered  steep, 
In  mossy  caverns  or  in  leafy  low  tents,  • 
And  fall  the  tall  forest  and  plant  again 
The  orderly  woods  like  to  regiments  ; 
And  fashion  the  beam  and  hew  the  wood, 
And  guide  the  raft  through  the  foamy  flood. 

COMO,  1874. 


IN  INNSBRUCK.  173 


IN  INNSBRUCK. 

"TAAY  by  day  by  the  high-born  rills 

That  plunge  into  Innsbruck  born  of  the 

snow, 

I  list  for  the  voices  of  long  ago. 
I  stood  over  Ishl  hid  under  the  hills  ; 
I  stood  where  the  white  clouds  curled  and  broke 
In  the  morn,  like  puffs  of  battle-white  smoke  : 
I  listened  all  day,  but  listened  in  vain, 
For  the  voice  of  my  mountain  comes  never  again. 

INNSBKUCK. 


174  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


FOR   PRINCESS   MAUD. 


i. 

OTORM  in  the  east  and  storm  in  the  west, 

And  the  wild  sea  over  my  head ; 
But  oh,  the  storm  that  is  in  my  breast 
For  my  brave  love  three  days  dead! 
Storm  and  tempest,  and  peril  and  pain, 
Nothing  but  tempest  and  wild  white  rain. 


n. 

Dead  is  my  heart  in  the  dust  to-day, 
And  the  wheels  go  over  my  head. 
Will  never  the  stone  be  rolled  away 
From  the  grave  of  my  beautiful  dead  ? 
Storm  in  my  heart,  on  the  hill,  on  the  plain  ; 
Tempest  and  tears,  and  the  wild  white  rain. 


FOR  PRINCESS  MAUD.  175 

m. 

Under  the  storm  and  the  cloud  to-day, 
And  to-day  the  hard  peril  and  pain  — 
To-morrow  the  stone  shall  be  rolled  away, 
For  the  sunshine  shall  follow  the  rain. 
Merciful  Father,  I  will  not  complain, 
I  know  that  the  sunshine  shall  follow  the  rain. 


176  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


I   SHALL   REMEMBER. 

i. 
~r^\ID  I  court  fame  by  the  favor  of  man  ? 

Make  war  upon  creed,  or  strike  hand  with 
clan? 

I  sang  my  songs  of  the  sounding  trees, 
As  careless  of  name  or  of  fame  as  the  sea ; 
And  these  I  sang  for  the  love  of  these, 
And  the  sad  sweet  solace  they  brought  to  me. 
I  but  sang  for  myself,  touched  here,  touched  there, 
Like  a  strong-winged  bird  that  flies  anywhere. 

n. 

Did  I  the  religions  assail  ?     Gainsay 

One  creed  that  is  taught,  or  lift  hard  hand, 

Or  teach  aught  else  than  as  Christ  taught  ?   Nay, 

There  is  little  enough  of  love  in  the  land, 

There  is  little  enough  of  Faith  for  me, 

There  is  little  enough  of  Charity, 


/  SHALL  REMEMBER.  177 

Little  enough  of  Hope,  I  guess,  — 

And  I  am  the  last  to  make  these  less. 

And  yet  did  ye  stone  your  prophets ;  and  yet  — 

Well,  I  shall  remember,  though  ye  may  forget. 

VENICE,  1873. 


12 


178  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 


VALE. 


T    ET  us  say  farewell.     A  far  dim  spark 

Illumes  my  path.     The  light  of  my  day 
Hath  fled,  and  yet  I  am  far  away. 
The  small  curled  moon  has  dipped  her  horn 
In  the  dark'ning  sea.     High  up  in  the  dark 
The  wrinkled  old  lion,  he  looks  away 
To  the  east,  and  impatient  as  if  for  morn.  .  .  . 
I  have  gone  the  girdle  of  earth,  and  say, 
What  have  I  gained  but  a  temple  gray, 
Two  crow's-feet,  and  a  heart  forlorn. 

n. 

A  star  starts  yonder  like  a  soul  afraid  ! 
It  falls  like  a  thought  thro'  the  great  profound. 
Fearfully  swift  and  with  never  a  sound, 
It  fades  into  nothing,  as  all  things  fade. 


VALE.  179 

Yea,  what  is  the  world  ?  And  where  is  the  leaven 
In  the  pride  of  name  or  a  proud  man's  nod  ? 
Oh  tiresome,  tiresome  stairs  to  heaven ! 
Weary,  oh  wearisome  ways  to  God ! 
'Twere  better  to  sit  with  the  chin  on  the  palm, 
Slow  tapping  the  sand,  come  storm,  come  calm. 

in. 

I  have  lived  from  within  and  not  from  without ; 
I  have  drunk  from  a  fount,  have  fed  from  a  hand 
That  no  man  knows  who  lives  upon  land ; 
I  care  not  a  pin  for  the  praise  of  men : 
And  yet  my  soul  it  is  crying  out 
In  hunger  for  love.     I  starve,  I  die, 
Each  day  of  my  life.     Ye  pass  me  by 
Each  day,  and  laugh  as  ye  pass  ;  and  when 
Ye  come,  I  start  in  my  place  as  ye  come, 
And  lean,  and  would  speak,  —  but  my  lips  are 
dumb. 

IV. 

Those  sliding  stars  and  the  changeful  moon  ! 
Let  me  rest  on  the  plains  of  Lombardy  for  aye, 
Or  sit  down  by  the  Adrian  Sea  and  die. 
The  days  that  do  seem  as  an  afternoon, 


180  SOA'GS  OF  ITALY. 

They  all  are  here.     I  am  strong  and  true 
To  myself ;  can  pluck  and  can  plant  anew 
My  heart,  and  grow  tall ;  could  come  to  be 
Another  being ;  lift  bolder  hand 
And  conquer.     Yet  ever  will  come  to  me 
The  thought  that  Italia  is  not  my  land. 

V. 

A  time  you  may  sit  and  be  satisfied  ; 

You  may  toy  with  new  things  like  a  child  at  play ; 

But  you  rise  at  last  and  you  thrust  them  away : 

And  then  there  rises  a  Saxon's  pride, 

And  the  heart  fills  full,  and  it  throbs  to  burst, 

With  a  sense  of  wrong,  and  a  savage  sense 

Of  right ;  and  you  rise  and  you  look  afar, 

And  over  the  seas  where  the  spaces  are, 

And  you  feel  that  there  the  God  at  the  first 

Did  set  you  down  with  inheritance.    . 

VI. 

Here  too  are  the  mountains.     But  a  day  from 

this  town 

Of  marble,  that  sits  to  its  waist  in  the  sea, 
A  moon-white  mountain  of  snow  looks  down 
On  a  thousand  glories  of  old  Italy. 


VALE.  181 

And  the  seas  are  here,  and  the  sunlit  skies 
Look  soft  as  a  love  in  a  lover's  eyes,  -. — 
Yet  all  this  beauty  and  love  by  the  sea 
But  seems  to  mock  me,  and  but  seems  to  say, 
"Stranger,  lorn  stranger,  rise  !  go  your  way !  " 

vn. 

I  shall  find  diversion  with  another  kind, 
There  are  roads  on  the  land  and  roads  on  the  sea, 
Take  ship  and  sail,  and  sail  till  I  find 
The  love  that  I  sought  from  eternity. 
Run  away  from  oneself,  take  ship  and  sail 
The  middle  white  seas,  see  turbaned  men,  — 
Throw  thought  to  the  dogs  for  aye.     And  when 
All  seas  are  travelled  arid  all  scenes  shall  fail, 
Why,  then  this  doubtful,  sad  gift  of  verse 
Will  save  me  from  death  —  or  something  worse. 

VIII. 

Then  deep-tangled  woodland  and  wild  waterfall, 

Oh  farewell  for  aye,  till  the  judgment  day ! 

I  shall  see  you  no  more,  O  land  of  mine, 

O  half-aware  land  like  a  child  at  play ! 

O  voiceless  and  vast  as  the  pushed-backed  skies ! 


182  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

No  more,  blue  seas  in  the  blest  sunshine, 
No  more,  black  woods  where  the  white  peaks  rise, 
No  more,  bleak  plains  where  the  high  winds  fall, 
Or  the  red  man  cries  or  the  shrill  birds  call ! 


IX. 

My  hand  it  is  weary,  and  my  harp  unstrung  ; 
And  where  is  the  good  that  I  pipe  or  sing, 
Fashion  new  notes,  or  shape  any  thing  ? 
The  songs  of  my  rivers  remain  unsung 
Henceforward  for  me.  .  .  .  But  a  man  shall  rise 
From  the  great  vast  valleys  of  the  Occident, 
With  hand  on  his  harp  of  gold,  and  with  eyes 
That  lift  with  glory  and  a  proud  intent ; 
Yet  so  gentle  indeed,  that  his  sad  heart-strings 
Shall  thrill  to  your  heart  of  hearts  as  he  sings. 

x. 

Let  the  wind  sing  songs  in  the  lakeside  reeds, 
Lo,  I  shall  be  less  than  the  indolent  wind ! 
Why  should  I  sow,  when  I  reap  and  bind 
And  gather  in  nothing  but  the  pasture  weeds? 
It  is  best  I  abide  let  what  will  befall, 


VALE.  183 

To  rest  if  I  can,  let  time  roll  by  ; 
Let  others  endeavor  to  learn,  while  I, 
With  nought  to  conceal,  with  much  to  regret, 
Shall  sit  and  endeavor,  alone,  to  forget. 

XI. 

Shall  I  shape  pipes  from  these  seaside  reeds, 
And  play  for  the  children,  and  shout  and  call  ? 
Lo  !  men  they  have  mocked  me  the  whole  year 

through ! 

Nay,  let  us  not  laugh.     I  find  in  old  creeds, 
And  in  quaint  old  tongues,  a  world  that  is  new ; 
And  these,  I  will  gather  the  sweets  of  them  all. 
And  the  old-time  doctrines  and  the  old-time  signs, 
I  will  taste  of  them  all,  as  tasting  old  wines. 

xn. 

I  will  find  new  thought,  as  a  new-found  vein 
Of  rock-locked  gold  in  my  far,  fair  West. 
I  will  rest  and  forget,  will  entreat  to  be  blest ; 
Take  up  new  thought  and  again  grow  young ; 
Yea,  take  a  new  world  as  one  born  again, 
And  never  hear  more  mine  own  mother  tongue  ; 
Nor  miss  it.    Why  should  I?    I  never  once  heard, 
In  my  land's  language,  love's  one  sweet  word. 


184  SONGS  OF  ITAL  Y. 

XIII. 

.  .  .  How  I  do  wander  !     And  yet  why  not  ? 
I  once  had  a  song,  told  a  tale  in  rhyme  ; 
Wrote  books  indeed  in  my  proud  young  prime : 
I  aimed  at  the  heart  like  a  musket  ball, 
I  struck  curs'd  folly  like  a  cannon  shot,  — • 
And  where  is  the  glory  or  good  of  it  all  ? 
Yet  these  did  I  write  for  my  love,  but  this 
I  write  for  myself,  —  and  it  is  as  it  is. 

XIV. 

Yea,  storms  have  blown  counter  and  shaken  me. 
And  yet  was  I  fashioned  for  strife,  and  strong 
And  daring  of  heart,  and  born  to  endure  : 
My  soul  sprang  upward,  my  feet  felt  sure ; 
My  faith  was  as  wide  as  a  wide-boughed  tree. 
But  there  be  limits ;  and  a  sense  of  wrong 
For  ever  before  you  will  make  you  less 
A  man,  than  a  man  at  the  first  would  guess. 

XV. 

Good  men  can  forgive  —  and,  they  say,  forget. . . , 
Far  less  of  the  angel  than  Indian  is  set 
In  my  stern  soul.     And  I  look  away 
To  a  land  that  is  dearer  than  this,  and  say, 


VALE.  185 

"  I  shall  remember,  though  you  may  forget. 
Yea,  I  shall  remember  for  aye  and  a  day 
The  keen  taunts  thrown  in  a  boy  face,  when 
He  cried  unto  God  for  the  love  of  men." 


XVI. 

Enough,  ay  and  more  than  enough,  of  this  ! 
I  know  that  the  sunshine  must  follow  the  rain ; 
And  if  this  be  the  winter,  why,  spring  again 
Will  come  in  its  season,  full  blossomed  in  bliss. 
I  will  lean  to  the  storm,  though  the  winds  blow 

strong ; 
Yea,  the  winds  they  have  blown  and  have  shaken 

me  — 
As  the  winds  blow  songs  through  a  shattered 

tree, 
They  have  blown  this  broken  and  careless-set 

song. 

XVII. 

They  have  sung  this  song,  be  it  never  so  bad ; 
Have  blown  upon  me  and  played  upon  me, 
Have  broken  the  notes,  — blown  sad,  blown  glad  ; 
Just  as  the  winds  blow  fierce  and  free 


186  SONGS  OF  ITALY. 

A  barren,  a  blighted,  and  a  curs'd  fig  tree. 
And  if  I  grow  careless  and  heed  no  whit 
Whether  it  please  or  what  comes  of  it, 
Why,  talk  to  the  winds  then,  and  not  to  me  I 

VENICE,  1875. 


Cambridge:  Press  of  John  Wilson  &  Son. 


SONGS    OF  THE    SIERRAS. 

BY  JOAQUIN   MILLER. 


Extracts  from  some  Reviews  of  the  New  American  Poet, 

which  have  appeared  in  the  English  Literary 

Journals— the  Criticisms  of  some  of 

the  most  learned  Critics  of 

the  day, 

"  ENGLISH  criticism  is  discerning  and  deliberate.  Books  by  new 
authors  are  sometimes  put  aside  because  their  authors  are  unknown : 
but  if  a  work  is  read  at  all,  it  will  be,  except  in  very  rare  instances, 
candidly  and  fairly  criticised,  and  public  opinion  will  tolerate 
neither  undue  severity  nor  undue  praise.  English  criticism  (except 
perhaps  that  of  a  few  of  the  lowest  journals,  which  is  not  worth 
having)  is  not  to  be  bought  with  favors  or  with  gold.  Faults  are 
not  absent  from  it;  but  venality  or  absolute 'unfairness  is  not  of 
these.  If  ever  they  become  so,  the  public  will  quench  the  critics. 

"  Miller  came  to  London  friendless,  without  influence,  without 
reputation.  His  book  won  for  itself  the  admiration  of  some  of  the 
best  and  wisest  of  the  land.  Many  of  the  most  favorable  notices 
which  have  appeared  in  the  chief  Journals  and  Reviews,  have  been 
written  by  the  most  trained  and  cautious  hands  in  London.  The 
men  who  have  clustered  about  him  have  won  the  highest  fame  the 
country  can  bestow  through  years  of  honorable  and  splendid  toil. 
Their  opinion  stands  as  the  index  of  the  world's  opinion.  Higher 
favors  the  world  has  not  to  bestow  than  their  friendship  and 

esteem." 

GEORGE  FRANCIS  ARMSTRONG. 

(i) 


MR.    MILLER'S 

SONGS  OF  THE  SUN-LANDS. 


Selections  from  some  criticisms  of  Mr.  Miller's 
new  volume  of  Poems,  "which  have  appeared  in 
the  English  journals. 

From  the  Athen&um, 

"  Songs  of  the  Sun-Lands  "  is,  it  will  be  seen,  similar  in  character  to  "  Songs 
of  the  Sierras,"  previously  published.  The  same  kind  of  materials  is  used,  and 
the  same  kind  of  faults  and  excellence  in  their  use  is  observable.  Mr.  Miller'* 
muse  in  this,  its  second  flight,  has  taken  the  same  direction  as  in  its  first  essay, 
but,  upon  the  whole,  we  think,  with  a  stronger  wing.  The  new  work  gives  evi 
dence  that  the  author  has  not,  as  was  feared,  intensified  his  former  mannerism, 
but  has  profited  by  the  advice  of  friends  and  critics. 


From  the  Academy. 

Mr.  Miller  has  a  faculty  of  making  himself  felt  through  what  he  writes,  and  w« 
quit  his  poems  with  a  mingled  sense  of  admiration  and  regret :  admiration  of  his 
really  great  powers ;  regret  that  he  seems  unable  to  pursue  one  of  two  courses  in 
their  application,  &c. 

From  the  Westminster  Review- 

We  some  time  ago  called  especial  attention  to  this  new  American  poet's  first  work, 
"The  Songs  of  the  Sierras,"  nor  do  we  repent  of  our  criticism.  He  has  perhaps 
lost  something  of  that  boldness,  and  that  flavor  of  originality,  which  in  a  certain 
way  reminded  one  of  Walt  Whitman  without  his  special  weaknesses  and  extrava 
gances.  Still,  to  counterbalance  this  loss,  he  has  gained  a  certain  polish.  Yet 
here  we  perceive  a  danger.  But  Mr.  Miller  must  be  careful  that  he  does  not  buy 
elegance  at  too  dear  a  price.  We  ourselves  prefer  the  roughness  of  the  backwoods 
of  America  to  all  the  drawingrroorn  conventionalities  of  Europe.  We  prefer  Mr. 
Joaquin  Miller's  native  reed-pipe  to  any  guitar.  The  most  perfect  poem  in  tha 


present  collection  is  without  doubt  "  The  Isles  of  the  Amazons."  Here  we  see  Mr 
Miller  at  his  best.  Here  he  has  put  forth  his  real  strength.  It  is,  in  short,  a 
poem  which  will  live. 

Front  the  Standard. 

No  poetry  of  the  present  age  has  any  claim  to  the  unconventional  freedom,  the 
Supreme  independence,  the  spontaneity,  the  bold  and  vigorous  originality,  the  all- 
pervading  passion,  the  unresting  energy,  and  the  prodigal  wealth  of  imagery  which 
stamp  the  poetry  before  us.  ...  For  further  specimens  of  Mr.  Miller's  present 
poems  ve  must  send  our  readers  to  the  volume  itself,  which  is,  with  all  its  faults,  a 
very  garden  of  delight,  adorned  everywhere  as  it  is  with  the  fairest  blooms  of  fancy, 
and  breathing  everywhere  as  it  does  of  the  sweetest  and  purest  inspirations  of  the 
muse. 

From  the  London  Sunday  Times. 

The  success  both  in  England  and  America  of  Mr.  Joaquin  Miller's  "  Songs  of 
the  Sierras"  has  been  uncontested.  The  tide  of  passionate  life  with  which  they 
were  charged,  and  the  fervor  of  poetic  appreciation  and  sympathy  they  displayed, 
combined  with  the  startling  beauty  and  power  of  portions  of  the  workmanship  to 
render  men  insensible  to  irregularities  and  inequalities  of  style.  .  .  .  Here  we  bid 
farewell  to  Mr.  Miller's  delightful  volume.  A  pleasanter  companion  into  the  en 
chanted  gardens  of  poetry  we  do  not  seek.  He  knows 

"  each  lane  and  every  alley  green, 
Dingle  or  bushy  dell  of  the  wild  wood, 
And  every  bosky  bourn  from  side  to  side," 

and  he  conducts  us  to  scenes  to  which  we  have  no  other  guide.  That  Mr.  Miller 
had  poetic  inspiration  his  first  volume  abundantly  proved.  That  his  verse  will  not 
b«  a  mere  well  at  which  the  traveller  can  drink  once  ere  pursuing  his  journey,  but 
a  full  river  of  song  hurrying  through  forest  and  meadow,  and  bearing  with  it  carol 
of  bird  and  scent  of  flower  and  hay,  is  now  sufficiently  established. 


From  the  Bookseller. 

Resembling  his  previously  published  collection,  in  that  the  verses  are  prin 
cipally  descriptive  of  strange,  far-away  countries,  and  contain  numerous  bright, 
beautiful  pictures  of  external  nature,  these  songs  of  the  sun-lands  will  be  warmly 
welcomed  as  the  riper  efforts  of  a  real  poet.  .  .  .  And  so  we  might  proceed  through 
poem  after  poem,  finding  images  of  great  and  sterling  poetic  value.  Nor,  perhaps, 
would  it  be  difficult  to  discover  some  that  might  be  called  trivial  and  poor ;  but  w» 
prefer  to  judge  a  writer  by  his  best  rather  than  by  his  worst ;  and  Mr.  Miller's 
best  lines  stamp  him  a  true  man,  —  a  man  of  sympathetic  instincts  and  deep  rev 
erence  for  all  that  is  high  and  noble  in  nature  and  humanity. 


From  the  Nonconformist. 

Of  all  American  poetry  in  recent  years,  that  of  Mr.  Joaquin  Miller  is  the  fresh 
est.  He  is  a  new  poet  in  the  proper  sense  of  the  term.  He  owes  allegiance  to 
no  transatlantic  masters,  and  he  is  no  servile  imitator  of  the  modern  minstrelsy  of 
our  own  country.  In  outward  form  —  in  the  mechanism  of  his  poetry  —  he  of 
course  follows  the  fashion  of  the  times;  but  the  spirit  is  new,  the  tone  is  indi 
vidual  and  distinct.  In  his  poems,  for  the  first  time  the  prairies,  the  sierras,  and 
the  new  and  old  life  of  the  Far  West  of  America  have  been  fairly  poetized,  so  to 
speak.  ..."  Songs  of  the  Sun-Lands "  contains  nothing,  perhaps,  superior  to 
"Arizonian"  in  Mr.  Miller's  "Songs  of  the  Sierras;"  yet  it  contains  no  poem 
so  crude  as  one  or  two  poems  in  his  former  volume.  The  best  here  is  undoubt 
edly  "  The  Isles  of  the  Amazons."  .  .  .  Notwithstanding  these  defects,  however, 
we  maintain  that  we  have  in  Mr.  Joaquin  Miller  a  new  poet,  who  with  more  culture 
and  higher  aims  is  fully  capable  of  producing  in  the  future  a  poem  that  the  world 
will  not  willingly  let  die. 

From  the  Globe. 

His  poetry  is  in  no  danger  of  suffering  neglect,  nor  is  it  likely  to  lack  admirers. 
By  his  earlier  volume,  "  The  Songs  of  the  Sierras,"  he  fully  proved  his  right  to 
be  heard ;  and  students  of  poetry  have  not  forgotten  the  influence  of  the  fresh 
thought  and  freer  music  his  verse  contained.  That,  in  truth,  was  the  essence  of 
Mr.  Miller's  achievement.  He  had  somehow  broken  away  from  the  ordinary 
standards  of  poetical  composition  without  sacrifice  of  musical  effect.  The  verse 
was  larger  and  with  less  restraint  than  could  be  found  in  other  singers,  moving 
with  a  more  continuous  flow,  and  advancing  in  a  cadence  always  varied  and  not 
recurring.  Something  instructive  in  the  style  seemed  to  image  both  the  singer 
and  the  thing  sung  of,  so  that  we  were  influenced  not  so  much  by  this  or  that  par 
ticular  thought,  as  by  the  romantic  and  picturesque  effect  of  the  whole,  with  its 
fearless  and  confident  description,  and  its  untamed  yet  tuneful  melody.  To  follow 
the  poet  was  like  following  a  keen,  swift  rider,  who  rides  eagerly,  it  matters  not 
whither,  and  who  attracts  us  by  a  wild  grace  and  a  beautiful  skill  as  he  rushes 
through  scenes  of  luxuriant  loveliness  that  would  cause  a  less  impetuous  horseman 
to  pause  and  linger.  That  was  the  character  of  his  verse  as  we  knew  it  in  the 
earlier  volume,  and  that  also  is  its  character  here.  What  was  best  in  the  earlier 
work  is  retained  in  this,  and  it  still  remains  the  best  the  poet  can  do. 

From  the  Morning  Post.  • 

The  author  appears  to  be  a  true  poet,  with  all  the  natural  fire  and  tenderness 
—  the  spark  and  dew — that  fall  from  Helicon.  ...  In  the  present  collection  of 
poems,  he  has  largely  contributed  to  his  own  fame,  which  was  already  very  great, 
and  to  the  pleasure  of  all  who  can  listen  with  sympathy  to  the  pathetic  muse  ex 
pressing  her  feelings  in  simple  but  inspired  strains. 


ROBERTS   BROTHERS,   PUBLISHERS, 

Boston. 

(3) 


MR.   MILLERS 

SONGS    OF   THE    SIERRAS. 

One  handsome  l6mo  volume,  clotkt  gilt  top. 
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(4) 


MR.  WILLIAM   MORRIS'S   WORKS. 


THE     EARTHLY     PARADISE. 

A  COLLECTION  OF  TALES  IN  VERSE. 

Parts  I.  and  II.    Prologue,  March,  April,  May,  June,  July,  and  August, 

containing  the  Stories  of  — 

THE  WANDERERS.  THE  WRITING  ON  THE  IMAGE. 

ATALANTA'S  RACK.  THE  LOVE  OF  ALCESTIS. 

THE  MAN  BORN  TO  BE  KING-  THE  LADY  OF  THE  LAND. 

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CUPID  AND  PSYCHE.  PYGMALION  AND  THE  IMAGE. 

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WEST  OF  THE  MOON.  THE  STORY  OF  RHODOPE. 

ACCONTIUS  AND  CvDIPPE.  THE  LOVERS  OF  GUDRUN. 

Part  IV.     December,  January,  and  February,  Epilogue,  and  L"  Envoi, 

containing  the  Stories  of — 

THE  GOLDEN  APPLES.  THE  RING  GIVEN  TO  VENUS. 

THE  FOSTERING  OF  ASLAUG.  BELBEROPHON  IN  LYCIA. 

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Sixth  Edition.     i6mo.    Cloth,  price  $1-50;  gilt  top,  price  $1.75. 


LOVE  IS  ENOUGH  ;  OR,  THE  FREEING  OF  PHAR- 

AMOND.    A  MORALITY.    Crown  8vo  edition,  green  vellum  cloth,  bevelled 
boards,  gilt  top.    Price  $2.00.     i6mo  edition,  cloth,  neat.    Price  £1.25. 

THE  DEFENCE  OF  GUENEVERE,  and  other 

Poems.    Crown  8vo.    Green  vellum  cloth,  bevelled  boards,  gilt  top.   Price 
$2.00. 

Mailed,  -postpaid,  by  the  Publishers, 

ROBERTS   BROTHERS,  BOSTON. 


of 


LOS  ANGELES 
LIBKARY 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  AT  LOS  ANGELES 

THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


Form  L-9 

20m -1,' 42  (8519) 


2597  -Miller  - 
S65       Songs  of 
Italy. 


UC  SOUTHERN  REGIONAL  LIBRARY  FACILITY 


AA      000066421    9 


PS 

2397 

S65 


